


A Land of Fire

by Makeyourbodyacanvas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Alternative Universe - ASoIaF, Book 1: A Game of Thrones, Denial of Feelings, Elia Martell Lives, Eventual Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, F/F, F/M, Gen, Half-Sibling Incest, Is Really A Princess, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, Lady (ASoIaF) Lives, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Other, Polyamory, R Plus L Does Not Equal J, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Incest, Smut, The Old Gods (ASoIaF), The Prince That Was Promised, Threesome - F/F/M, Unrequited Love, Wargs (ASoIaF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-01-11 03:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18421881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makeyourbodyacanvas/pseuds/Makeyourbodyacanvas
Summary: That was the thing about Freiya Targaryen, she kept on surviving. With puncture wounds in her lungs, and knife marks etched on her back, she'd never let anything keep her down. She was resilient, a fighter, a warrior to the bone, but none of it was by choice. After all, she was the third head of the dragon.





	1. Chapter 1

**_298 AC_ **

**_Sixteenth Day of the Fourth Moon_ **

**_Winterfell, The North_ **

 

Frey stood on top the grassy hill, the morning clear and cold, the wind blowing around her, hinting with a crispness that summer was coming to an end. She narrowed her eyes, trying to focus on her target. She closed her eyes—shutting out the wails of the crows, and her thundering heartbeat—and forced herself to focus solely on the skinny tree that was rooted a few feet in front of her. She could have pushed her limits, the furthest she had ever shot was at forty yards. That was the kind of shot her cousins couldn't make, the kind her uncle's men still had trouble making. She was gifted, her mother reborn, or so her uncle always said with a glint of something cold in his eyes.

 

Frey fitted in well amongst her cousins and the people of the North. She always did what was expected of her; spending time with the other girls, as was her place, and attended to all domestic affairs. But deep down, Frey wasn't content. She was her mother's daughter, having a wild spirit, like she once had, and she had wolfblood running hot through her veins. She was meant to ride wild horses beyond the Wall, not be stuck beside the hearth with a babe at her breast. She was better suited for swords and armor than needles and fairytales. She could already outshot some of her uncle's best archers, much to her aunt’s displeasure. But she wouldn't be deterred, she demanded to be taken seriously.

 

Frey did her best training outside the interior of Winterfell, where she was free to do whatever she so pleased in the open plains, alone—which suited her well since, from a young age, she had learned to teach herself many a things without anyone's aid. She had made it a habit to trek into the openness by herself at least twice a week, practicing her favorite sport of archery. High atop the plateau, where the North winds chilled her to the bone, was where she'd find the best trees to take aim at. They were so skinny that they would be easy to miss, but the sound of the arrowhead embedding itself into the bark echoed around the silence. Not a single tree was left unmarked. 

 

After much begging from her end, Frey’s lord Uncle Ned had allowed his men to teach her the basics. When she first started, she learned by shooting at the mice that scurried around like small devils. They were all quickly surprised to find that she could kill them with an ease that even seasoned archers had trouble managing. While she was good, too good, she couldn't stomach killing an innocent. The mice had done nothing to her, they had not deserved to die by her hands, and so Frey vowed to herself that she would never raise her bow to kill unless she had to. She did not find pleasure in killing living things, unless it attacked her—like the bats that tormented the people at night. She had no guilt aiming at them, especially after her young cousin Arya had suffered from a bat’s bite that left her sickly for half a moon. That, and, Frey knew if she could drop them, and at night for that matter, she'd be able to hit any target; the bats were the fastest moving creatures. She had spent a whole night in the broken tower, shooting the bats out of the sky, and had been thrilled at the number that had littered the ground by the morning. That was where her uncle had found her, standing there in amazement. 

 

Frey shook her head, bringing her back to reality. Her grey eyes were trained on the tree as she raised the bow, pulled it back to her chin, and released without a second thought. She knew that she had hit her target even before she had released. She had also learned by watching other archers, seeing their mistakes and hers. She noticed that once you wavered your shot was lost forever. 

 

A second later she heard the thwack, like music to her ears. She turned around, already looking for her next target.

 

There was a whining at her feet that drew her attention away from her training. She looked down at Runic, her direwolf, laying beside her like he always did, nosing her boots. A pup only weeks old, but growing at an impeccably fast rate, Runic was as protective of Frey as she was of him. Like her cousins, Frey had formed a special bond unlike any other with her wolf. She couldn't go anywhere without Runic yapping behind her like a happy shadow. And all that time he stayed by her side—unless there was a squirrel to chase, or the other pups wanted to play. 

 

“We'll go back soon, boy,” Frey said, reaching down to scratch that spot behind his ears that made his legs shake. Runic purred at her affection, licking at her hand.

 

Frey walked on, finding herself back in the godswood soon enough. Though she had been born a Targaryen, at the Tower of Joy in Dorne, Stark blood was thick in her veins, and she felt at home in Winterfell. The godswood of King’s Landing were at the Red Keep in the crownlands, overlooking the Blackwater Rush. It consisted of an acre of elm, alder, and black cottonwood. It was an oddity compared to the weirwoods of older godswoods; it's heart tree being a great oak covered in smokeberry veins with red dragon’s breath growing beneath the oak. For their gods were apart of the Faith; those who had names and whose faces were just as familiar as mother's face to her babe.

 

Her mother's gods didn't have such an airy place of worship. The woods were a dark, primal place that was three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the dark castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay, and to Frey, that's what home smelt like. No red dragon’s breath grew here. The Stark’s wood was as stubborn as them, armored in grey-green needles of oak and ironwood as old as the realm itself. Thick black trunks crowded together with twisting branches woven over a dense canopy overhead, and misshapen roots wrestled underneath the soil. It was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows. The gods who lived here—her mother's gods, Frey’s gods—had no names.

 

Their gods were the old ones. The nameless, faceless gods of the greenwood they had once shared with the now vanished children of the forest.

 

At the center of the grove was an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pond of cold, black water. “The heart tree,” her Uncle Ned explained to her when she had still been small enough to be held in his arms. The bark was white as bone, the leaves dark as blood. A long, melancholy face had been carved into the trunk of the great tree with deep-cut eyes red and dried sap, making it strangely watchful. Those eyes were old, older than Winterfell itself, and Frey wondered what marvels it had seen. Surely it had witnessed Brandon the Builder set the first foundation, lay the very first stone. If the tales were true, the children of the forest had carved the faces in the tree during the dawn centuries before the First amen across the narrow sea came. 

 

The last of the weirwoods in the South had been cut down or possibly burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces where green men kept their silent watch. The North was different from the rest. Here every castle had its godswood with a heart tree, and every heart tree had its face. 

 

Frey suddenly heard a familiar voice call out, heading right towards her. Runic yipped, and three pups came dashing through the thick moss. First emerged her young cousin Bran, followed by Robb and Jon. Frey relaxed, smiling just a bit. She could tell by the joy in her younger cousin's voice that he was happy to see her.

 

Frey’s eyes caught Robb and Jon’s as Bran crashed into her. Amongst the three of them, it was hard to say who was older. Robb, who was his mother's son with his Tully features, had been born at Riverrun, and Jon, who looked nothing like Ashara Dayne’s renowned great beauty, had been born at Starfall. Uncle Ned usually said Robb was older by less than a moon, and that she and Jon shared their day of birth. Both of them were tall for boys their age, overgrown brutes nearing fifteen. Jon was more Stark than Robb, his face long with dark, brown hair, and grey eyes so dark they almost seemed black. Then there was Bran with his thick auburn locks and deep blue eyes. 

 

Frey favored Jon in looks—with her dark, brown hair and light grey eyes. In her usual attire of woven tights, a woolen tunic, and a cloak with her furs thrown over top, Frey was tall and pale with her mother's broad forehead and small nose, blessed also with her mother's beauty to make men look at her twice. Especially now since she would be turning fifteen, she noticed the looks doubling.

 

She didn't like it. She was uncomfortable with the attention being on her, and she did not view herself as her mother reborn (appearance wise). Frey cared little for looks—just like she cared little for her title. She was rather thankful to resemble her Northern mother then.  _ Princess Freyja _ made her sound dainty, and after checking her reflection in the steel of her sword, Frey knew that she was anything but. 

 

“You were gone forever!” Bran cried, his voice carrying. 

 

At her younger cousin's cry of distress, Summer was right at his owner’s side, sniffing him over. Like his siblings, Summer was growing fast and was inseparable from Bran’s side. The pup was already at the boy's waist.

 

Robb and Jon stood in front of them as the young boy chattered on. Their pups, Grey Wind and Ghost, were nuzzling Runic as if they had missed each other. The sweetness of the moment ended when Grey Wind head butted Ghost. The all white pup stiffened and lunged at its older brother. In the process of rough housing, Grey Wind, ever the bully, pulled Runic in to it. 

 

The older cousins watched on, letting it happen. They had quickly learned that their pups were like them; always getting into trouble they couldn't get themselves out of. And until recently, they hadn't realized how maddening it was.

 

Frey realized what was happening: Bran had been dragging the older boys around, looking for Frey. She spotted the look of relief in Robb and Jon’s eyes, too, and knew that they had been searching for some time now. 

 

Frey wrapped her arm around Bran’s shoulders, pulling him in.

 

“You've been gone long enough now,” Robb said to her.

 

“It's past time you come home,” Jon added.

 

They bounded down the grass hill that they all knew by heart, and it did not take them long to get back to the castle. Arya came running out into the yard when she saw them, and stopped before them, blocking their path. Nymeria, Arya’s wolf, was beside her, making them all stop short.

 

Arya’s face, which was more Stark than Tully, when glancing over at Frey, showed relief before it fell back into a glare. 

 

“Can we help you, Arya?” Robb asked.

 

“Shouldn't you be sewing with the other girls?” Bran mocked. “You're blocking our way.”

 

Arya frowned, though undeterred, as she and Bran glared at each other. Nymeria and Summer growled. 

 

“Control them, please,” Robb said, trying not to sound exasperated.

 

Like Bran and Arya, their wolves were always at each other's throats, too.

 

“Where were you?” She asked, deadly serious, still glaring at Bran without breaking eye contact.

 

The boys didn't say anything right away. They slowly glanced at Frey.

 

“We went to bring Frey home,” Jon said.

 

“I went shooting,” Frey finally said. She raised her bow halfheartedly, almost pathetically. “I had a lot on my mind.”

 

“You should've brought me along,” Arya said firmly.

 

“You're too young,” Robb reminded her.

 

But that didn't stop Arya.

 

“I'm older  _ and  _ a better shot than Bran, but he's allowed to go,” she said, taking a dig at Bran in the process. 

 

“Hey!” Bran scowled. “Says who?”

 

“Says me.”

 

“Throwing needles at Jeyne Poole doesn't make you a better shot,” Bran said.

 

Arya flushed, eyes sparking with anger. “At least I can hit my target,” she replied. 

 

The young Stark siblings stood there in tense silence, and Frey looked to Jon, who just raised a brow.

 

“Arya,” Frey called out to her. “Walk with me to my room, yeah?”

 

Arya looked down at Bran, smug. And Bran stood there, silent, glaring holes into the back of her head as she rushed to catch up with Frey.

 

“You should be nicer to Bran,” Frey said. “He's your little brother.”

 

Speaking from experience, Frey knew the type of frustration that Bran was burning with.

 

“Well, he should be nicer to me since I'm older,” Arya said. “Mother and father are worried, you know? Night comes quicker, a storm brews. And there's been word of wildlings in the forests again! Father will probably confine you to the yard.”

 

Frey scowled, annoyed.

 

“And mother doesn't want you running off,” Arya continued. “Why would you, though? It's just your father coming to visit.”

 

“Haven't you heard what curiosity did to the cat?” Frey jested.

 

Arya grumbled, and even though Frey laughed at her, she burned, wanting to run away. But with her aunt and uncle knowing her so well, there wasn't much she could do.

 

“Your parents worry too much, Arya,” Frey suddenly said. “Nothing has ever happened to me in those woods. I'd probably be safer out there—especially with the royal family coming. Besides, who wants to see Sansa and all the other girls drool over the prince?”

 

“Girls like them are stupid,” Arya said. “Isn't the prince married? Why would anyone drool over a married man?”

 

Frey immediately tensed up at the mention of her half-siblings, her memories of them vague and childish since she had been only in her seventh summer when it had been arranged for Frey to be sent to the North. 

 

Nymeria and Runic brushed past their humans, bounding into Frey’s room, making themselves comfortable. Nymeria curled up near the fireplace, patiently waiting for it to be lit, and Runic took his usual place on the bed. 

 

“I'll take you with me next time,” Frey said all of the sudden to her younger cousin. “And I'll teach you everything I know. Would you like that?”

 

She smiled when Arya began to bounce in place, the younger girl's eyes suddenly were too big for her face and filled with excitement. A moment of silence passed as Arya hugged Frey with all her might.

 

Finally, she spoke. 

 

“Thank you, thank you!” Arya gushed. “You'll be an amazing teacher.”

 

Arya didn't bother to say much more as a servant made their presence known outside the door, ready to light the fire. Frey had half the mind to scold Arya when she hadn't called Nymeria away. The overgrown pup was harmless, curious even of the new person in front of her, but the servant did her duty with shaky hands and left as quickly as she could without coming across as disrespectful.

 

Frey turned back to Arya and raised an eyebrow, but Arya just smiled.

 

Frey crossed the room and peered through the heavy tapestry that faced the castle gates. Arya had been right, a storm was brewing. That didn't hinder the servants, though. She watched as they chopped wood, rounded the animals together for slaughtering, and as the the men attempted to wrangle in the biggest, nastiest bull that would be part of the main course. Frey felt a pit in her stomach. She thought of snatching Jon and hiding in the crypts—but she didn't want to shame her uncle.

 

She knew that she was being childish, but she couldn't help it. Something within her wouldn't allow herself to calm the nerves. She sensed trouble, especially with the dragons coming North. She did not trust her father; this was something more than a family visit, she knew, but Frey couldn't figure out why he was coming, and it was driving her restless. Worst of all, the Queen and the royal children were coming, and it was rumored that the King’s sister was joining them. It was a terrible combination to Frey.

 

Frey didn't want to think of the dragons any longer. She had two days before they would arrive, so she refused to worry anymore. Besides, no matter the reasoning, Frey was old enough now—she didn't have to answer to anyone but herself.

 

Frey turned back around, finding Arya rubbing Runic’s belly. Nymeria still rested by the fireplace, and Frey would've swore that the pup rolled its eyes at its brother.

 

* * *

 

**_Eighteenth_ _Day of the Fourth Moon_ _  
_**

**_Winterfell, The North_ **

 

Frey stood behind her aunt and uncle along with her cousins, pressed between Robb and Jon as she kept a firm grip on Arya’s fur while Robb steadied Bran with a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder, keeping them separated so they couldn't cause a scene. The last thing they needed were for the two siblings to embarrass Lady Stark as the visitors came through the castle gates in a sea of red and black and polished steel. They were all men, all proud bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freeriders, and there had to be at least three hundred of them. Swaying in the breeze above all of their heads were a dozen black banners with the signature red three-headed dragon of the Targaryens.

 

Frey could pick out many familiar faces. There was Ser Jaime Lannister, his face still handsome even with the aging of almost eight years, with hair as bright as beaten gold; Ser Gerold Hightower, known as the White Bull, who was said to be still as fierce as anyone younger than him despite his old age; Ser Barristan Selmy with his pale blue eyes, white hair and lined features; Ser Oswell Whent who hadn't taken off the helmet emblazoned with a black bat with its wings spread, symbolizing House Whent, and Sandor Clegane with his terrible burned face. Then there was Ser Arthur Dayne who stood next to a tall boy who looked every inch a crowned prince and so very much like his father. And the short-legged and stocky, thickly built, with a plain face boy who stood next to Prince of the Seven Kingdoms had to be Prince Quentyn Nymeros Martell.

 

But those men paled in comparison to the man who stood tall at the head of the column, whose silver-blond hair stood out like a sore thumb against the darkness of red and black, and whose deep purple eyes caught Frey’s for just a short second that she almost thought she'd imagined it. Truly, it was unsettling at how young he still looked. Frey’s uncle looked at the man like one would a stranger. 

 

“Lord Stark, it is a great honor to be a guest in your humble home. The crown thanks you greatly for your kindness.” The king bowed his head every so slightly, looking at Eddard Stark from bottom to top. “You've changed, my lord.”

 

It was safe to say that Ned wouldn't have been able to say the same. Fifteen years had past, and Rhaegar was still beautiful as ever. But back then the king, who had rode into the battle a prince, wore a night-black plate armor, with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen decorated in rubies on its breastplate, and underneath the plate he wore golden ringmail. Rhaegar decorated his helm with gold, orange, and red silken streamers resembling flames. His long, elegant fingers that were known to make men and women cry as he played the harp had fastened to his sword just as easily, ultimately saving his life. Ned didn't like to think of such things, for they were the past, and their gruesome nature would surely keep him up at night if he'd let it. So instead he would rather pick out the similarities between the king and his niece. 

 

While it was blatantly obvious of which side Frey took after, there was no denying that she was Rhaegar’s child. For there was no reason to lie that Frey was a better copy than Lyanna—especially with many claiming that she was the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. The shape of the father and daughter's eyes were exact copies of the others, though, both holding a look of brooding inner turmoils. Frey's fingers were long like his, but they weren't elegant, nor were they soft. Ned knew that his niece's hands had the same roughness to them as Robb’s and Jon’s. And he knew that she took pride in it, just like he knew Lyanna would have. But while Frey would never give up an opportunity to learn about the past, even more so her family's history, she wasn't bookish like her father was. She was more prone to pick up a bow and arrow than a book, but she would choose her harp and sing if she were in a good mood. 

 

And Frey's moods being good were far and few. No matter how much Ned wished for it to be so, he knew that Frey was far from the child-woman that Lyanna had been. She had her mother's touch of wildness, but not her mother's enthusiasm for life in general. Instead, his poor niece seemed to have been born in the same grief as her father. And instead of it being “the shadow of Summerhall”, it was the death at the Tower of Joy that deeply affected Frey. 

 

And Rhaegar was Ned’s king now, no matter how many times he had dreamt of his late friend Robert Baratheon smashing his war hammer into Rhaegar’s chest with a deadly blow, so he simply said, “Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.”

 

The rest who were apart of the king’s party had started to dismount, and grooms were coming forward for their mounts. Not only did Rhaegar, his son, and sister stand out sorely against the gloominess of Winterfell, but so did his queen, Elia Martell, who stepped out of the carriage with their eldest child, the Princess Rhaenys. Ned knelt in the snow to kiss the queen's ring, and Rhaegar embraced Catelyn like any good king would. Then the children were brought forward, and Ned could practically feel Frey's nerves coming off of her in waves of silence. 

 

Robb was introduced first and Ned finished off his children with Rickon. Jon, who had been ignoring the stare of Ser Arthur Dayne, was introduced next; much to Catelyn’s chagrin. All eyes turned to Frey, who stood with her head high and eyes unwavering as the king looked upon her like she was one of the most precious things in the world.

 

Those with the king knelt before her— _ Princess Freyja  _ they murmured ever so softly, some looking at her like they were seeing a ghost. And they might as well have been. Frey rarely recalled happy memories from her short childhood at King's Landing, and those that she could were mainly centered around her bedchamber that had been far too big for her as child. She hadn't had many friends; the socialists had been Rhaenys and Aegon. But, then again, everyone had whispered that Frey hadn't been Rhaegar’s trueborn child. Who would want to befriend the supposed bastard?

 

“Rhaenys. Aegon,” the king called for his children. 

 

It was funny how none of the king’s children looked alike. Rhaenys looked like a Martell, just as beautiful and slender as her mother with the same black eyes, and a flat chest. She looked just as gentle and delicate as Sansa did, like a true good lady, but Rhaenys didn't have the same air of naivety. And Aegon was every inch a Targaryen as his large violet eyes viewed his surroundings with wisps of hair that were more silver than blond touching unusually dark eyebrows that stood out against his rather cream-colored skin. He had grew into his self, even though he (and Rhaenys) had been beautiful when he had been a tyke. It was easy to see that Aegon was destined to be taller than his father, and from the looks of it, more muscular, too. 

 

Rhaenys was quick to forego the formalities of greetings, overlooking Lord Stark as she pulled her half-sister into an unexpected, surprised hug. “ _ Freyja!  _ It is so good to see you again—look how you’ve grown! You look pale, though, sister. You must come back south.”

 

Rhaenys continued to chatter on about Highgarden and their golden roses, and how Storm’s End could be just as hot as Dorne. Aegon coming up beside them, practically overshadowing them both, hadn’t distracted her in the slightest. But he certainly had caught Frey’s attention. Aegon regarded Frey with guarded curiosity, and Frey returned the look. 

 

Growing up, Rhaenys hadn’t cared if Frey was her half-sister or not, if she was truly a bastard or not, she was just happy to have a sister—which meant that she had someone to play with. Aegon, on the other hand, had made it very clear as to what he thought of his half-sister: She was a mistake, she wasn’t worthy to bask in their presences; let a lone bear the name Targaryen. He had wanted her gone because she made his mother unhappy. She had been the main cause of the king and queen’s arguments. To Aegon, Frey was no sister. She was simply a bastard. A pretender.

 

And if he had the courage, he would liken her to a Blackfyre. His mother surely had. 

 

“She’s a Northerner, Rhae,” Aegon said out of the blue, surprising Frey with how deep his voice was. Since when did Aegon, who Frey remembered sounding like a squeaking mouse, sound like a man? “She wouldn’t like it south.”

 

Rhaenys stopped talking, and she glanced up at Aegon, pleading. “Egg,  _ please _ .”

 

“You’re right,” Frey said, standing her ground like she use to do as a child. “Everyone knows that Starks don’t fare well when they travel south.”

 

With that, everyone around them fell silent. Frey really could’ve let him have it—but she did not need to raise her voice. She stood proudly, feeling good about herself, knowing within herself that she had quickly established where her alliance laid; and shutting Aegon up still brought her the satisfaction she craved.

 

Frey felt a small hand touch hers, and she looked down to see Bran, smiling, consoling her, clearly grateful to have her in his life. Frey pondered what life would have been like if she had been born a Stark for just a sliver of a moment. After all, she was more a wolf than a dragon.

 

“Freyja.”

 

A pliable voice cut through the thick silence of the half-sibling’s staring contest. 

 

Rhaegar suddenly appeared next to his children, wearing furs that Frey was just taking notice of. He was flanked by a dozen of men, and gave Aegon a disapproval glance. 

 

He stopped only a few feet in front of her. Staring back, Frey was already anticipating the words that he would say next, though they were a mystery to her. As they faced each other, Aegon stalked away, back to his mother, and the queen did not rebuke her son. Instead, Martell eyes caught Frey's and they were as cold as the ice that would soon encase Winterfell. That angered Frey, leaving her to an odd standoff with her father. She was sure that he could see her rage and distrust reflecting in her eyes. And while she had inherited her mother's stubbornness, her father wasn't one who would so easily budge either. 

 

Finally, her father wordlessly held out his hand, wanting her to take it, wanting her to follow him to wherever he had in mind. The tension only grew when the king finally spoke. “If you would be so kind and gracious, Lord Stark, I would to be taken to your crypt. It is high time for me to properly pay my respects.”

 

Frey stood still, watching her father's face as she heard her uncle call for a lantern. She and the entirety of Winterfell knew that Rhaegar had no rights to request such a thing, king or not. The crypts of Winterfell were a sacred place reserved only for those who had Stark blood running through their veins. Not even Aunt Catelyn had stepped foot there. 

 

Perhaps Rhaegar thought that Frey would love him for that, for remembering her mother still after all these years. But his act, genuine or not, did nothing but make her anger and discomfort bristle even more so. 

 

Queen Elia began to protest.  _ The dead could wait.  _ She said it so easily, so flippantly that Frey dared to imagine the queen tied to a tree. There, in her wild imagination, she would raise her bow and embed her with arrows. She would let Runic loose on her. The queen said no more when Rhaegar looked at her, quickly realizing that he would not come to her side. 

 

Frey walked beside her father down the stone corridors of the crypt, following her Uncle Ned who led with the lantern. She didn't take her father's hand. As they descended, Frey recalled the first time she had saw the crypts. She had been a little girl; Old Nan had told her it contained spiders and rats the size of dogs. On one occasion Jon had covered himself with flour, trying to scare Frey and the other Stark children as a ghost. That had ended with Arya punching him in the face. Bran loved roping them to play in the vault with him, and Arya sometimes hid in the crypts, playing come-into-my-castle, hide-the-treasure, and monsters and maidens amongst the stone kings. The crypts were also the place where Lord Brandon “the daughterless” Stark had eventually found his daughter with an infant, believed to be Bael the Bard’s bastard. It was also rumored that Prince Jacaerys Velaryon’s dragon, Vermax, laid dragon eggs in the depths of the crypts, where hot springs were near the walls, at the start of the Dance of the Dragons. 

 

“I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your Grace?” Uncle Ned walked somberly, his face set, several steps ahead, and he wore what appeared to be a frown of disapproval; one that Frey rarely saw him wear. He looked troubled, too, and she assumed it was because of today's events—and perhaps he was already informed as to why the king was here. Yet Frey knew that preparing a feast for guests was always burdensome for her uncle, having to host lords and the king well past midnight was an ancient tradition. Aunt Catelyn took up much of the hosting as she could, trying to make it easier for her husband. Ned Stark wasn't a sociable man, and he struggled to keep up with social graces. 

 

Rhaegar nodded. “It's been a long time since I've seen so many forests and fields untouched by man. The vast openness is also a nice change, and my children have never been north so they were occupied for half of the journey. But, where are all your people, Lord Stark?”

 

“Likely they were too shy to come out,” Ned said. He had lied, Frey knew. A cold breath rushed up at them from deep within the earth. “Kings are a rare sight in the north.”

 

_ The North remembers _ —not only Lyanna, but Torrhen Stark, too. 

 

Frey wondered if her father had caught the slight when he blinked. “Oh. I thought the snow had something to do with it.”

 

“Late summer snows are common,” Uncle Ned explained. “And mild. I hope that did not trouble your journey.”

 

Rhaegar claimed that the snow was a nice, welcoming sight. “But I do shudder to think what this place will be like in winter.”

 

“The winters are hard,” Uncle Ned admitted. “But the Starks will endure. We always have. Right, Frey?”

 

“Winter is coming,” Frey said. She thanked the gods for the darkness of the crypts, so that the men couldn't see her faint smile. Frey loved her Uncle Ned with all her heart, he was more a father to her than Rhaegar had ever been. And it touched her deeply that he would never treat her less than his children, even with her father standing right next to them. 

 

Silence thickened around them at her words, and neither men tried to make pleasant small talk anymore. The darkness grew as they traveled deeper into the earth, and Frey missed Rhaegar looking at her, stone-faced. She missed his look of pain. She missed the way he looked at her with love and heartbreak. It hurt that Freyja, his daughter born from ice, who always had nothing but a smile for him when she had been a child, now looked at him as if he were a stranger. He could not contain his grief. 

 

“Your Grace,” Ned said with the utmost respect for Frey's sake. He swept the lantern around, and shadows moved and lurched. The flickering light touched the underfoot of stones, brushing the long procession of granite pillars that stood ahead, two by two, in the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their thrones against the wall, overlooking the Seoul cures that contained their mortal bones. “She is down at the end, with our Father and Brandon.”

 

Uncle Ned led the way. Frey and Rhaegar followed wordlessly, the latter shivering at the subterranean chill. It was always cold down there, but Frey had never dared to venture this way into the crypts. She was ashamed to say she had never visited her mother’s grave; she had never properly sat at the stone marble of her mother’s feet and talked to her. She had wanted to—nothing would have brought her more joy than seeing the stone etching of her mother’s youthful face, but her emotions always held her back. She was too afraid of wallowing in despair, to long for her mother’s touch. So she stayed away. 

 

Their footsteps rang off the stones and echoed in the vault overhead as they walked among the dead of House Stark. The Lords and Ladies of Winterfell watched them as they passed. Their likenesses were carved into the stones that sealed the tombs. They all sat in long rows, all blind to the eternal darkness with stone direwolves curled at their feet. The shifting of the lantern light seem to make the stone figures stir as they moved by.  

 

According to tradition, iron longswords had been laid across each lord's lap to keep vengeful spirits within the crypt. The oldest of those longswords had rusted away to nothing, leaving only a few red stains where metal had rested on stone. Frey remembered Old Nan telling them that the Lords who no longer had longswords resting on their laps were now free to roam wherever they so pleased in Winterfell. The thought had not rested well with the children because the first Lords of Winterfell had been men as hard as the land they ruled. Long before the Dragonlords came from overseas to claim Westeros as theirs, the Starks sworn allegiance to no man, fashioning themselves as Kings of the North. 

 

Frey stopped just as her Uncle Ned did, watching him lift the lantern. The cavernous vault was larger than Winterfell itself, with older Starks buried in deeper and darker levels. The lowest level was said to be partly collapsed. The most recent tombs within the crypts, however, were those of Lord Rickard Stark and his children, Brandon and Lyanna.

 

“Here,” Ned said to Rhaegar.

 

Rhaegar nodded silently, knelt, and bowed his head without saying a word. 

 

Frey stood standing, staring. She took in the face of her grandfather, long and stern just like stone that encased him. She had heard the stonemason had known him well. He sat with dignity, and Frey could only imagine what kind of man he had been. She eyed the sword across his lap and almost scoffed. It had been a sword that failed him in life. 

 

Uncle Brandon had only been twenty when he died, strangled by the orders of the Mad King Aerys Targaryen—Frey’s paternal grandfather who she damned always—only a few months before Ashara Dayne had birthed him a son. His father had been forced to watch him die. He had been the true heir, the eldest, born to rule.

 

Lyanna had only been sixteen, almost a year older than Frey was now. Uncle Ned had loved her with all his heart, and Frey liked to believe the same could be said for her father even though they had only known each other for a short while. Robert Baratheon had loved her even more. She was to have been his bride. He had started a rebellion in her name. But none had loved her more than Frey. 

 

“She was more beautiful than that.” Uncle Ned’s voice cut through the silence. He lifted the lantern to see Frey’s face. She could see him wistfully smiling in the shadows at her. “She was beautiful, like you.”

 

Frey refused to acknowledge her eyes burning with tears, and instead she lingered on her mother’s stone face, almost willing her back to life. Her concentration was broken when her father finally rose, his pale hair the only thing easily visible in the darkness. 

 

Rage like nothing ever before shook Frey to the core. As she continued to glare at her father’s back she felt the sudden urge to hit him. She wanted to curse him. She wanted him to suffer for what he and his family had done to hers. She may have been styled with the name Targaryen, but she was anything but. All those deaths had been Rhaegar’s doing. He had kidnapped Lyanna, made her fall in love with him for the sake of some damn prophecy, and had thrown the kingdom into a civil war. It was all his fault. 

 

And now her mother rested in a place like  _ this _ . It was a place where the old and ready to die came, not a girl of only sixteen who hadn’t even been blessed with the opportunity to hold her only child. Frey’s eyes stung with tears. Her mother deserved more than darkness. 

 

“She should be on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean,” Frey said. Her voice was hoarse with what could have been. 

 

“She was a Stark of Winterfell,” Rhaegar said quietly. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Lyanna’s stone carved face either. “This is her place.”

 

“I was with her when she died,” Ned reminded his niece. “She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father. She wanted to be close to you.”

 

Ned could still hear Lyanna at times.  _ Promise me,  _ she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses.  _ Promise me, Ned.  _ The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister’s eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled when Frey’s cries had pierced their ears; how tightly Lyanna’s fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered only holding his niece. And that’s how they had found him—still holding onto Frey with one arm as his other fingers still clutched onto Lyanna’s, silent with grief. Rhaegar, then the newly proclaimed king, had taken Frey from Ned, and Ser Arthur Dayne had taken Lyanna’s hand from his. Ned could barely recall any of it. 

 

“I bring her flowers when I can,” he said. “Your mother was….fond of flowers.”

 

Frey use to pick flowers when she had been a little girl, Uncle Ned encouraging her to choose only the prettiest. She herself had never been fond of flowers. She found that they were too delicate and would wither under harsh conditions if no one could tend to them right. It was all too much for a child, but Frey still had picked and plucked until she couldn’t hold anymore in her little fist. She never knew what her uncle wanted them for, but now she knew. 

 

Frey touched her mother’s cheek, her fingers shaking as they brushed across the rough stone as gently as if it were living flesh. “This is your fault,” she bit out harshly towards her father.

 

“It is,” Rhaegar agreed.

 

“It should have been you,” Frey said bitterly.

 

The entire kingdom had heard the story by now. Both sides had come together at the ford of the Trident while the final battle waged on. Robert Baratheon had been wielding his war hammer and wearing his great antlered helm, and Rhaegar was armored in all black. Word quickly spread that the breastplate wrought all in rubies flashed like fire in the sunlight. They had said that the water of the Trident ran red around their feet until Rhaegar drove his sword through Robert, and routed the the rebels. Uncle Ned rarely spoke of that day, but Frey couldn’t imagine his grief. To see his long time friend lay dead in the stream and then watch his little sister die would have broken a lesser man. 

 

“In my dreams, you die every time,” Frey admitted. “She is happy and alive, and  _ you  _ are the one who dies a thousand deaths.”

 

There was nothing Rhaegar could say. 

 

Frey turned abruptly, as she started back the way they had came, her footsteps fading the further she went. 

 

After the moment passed, Ned said, “We should return, Your Grace. Your wife and children will be waiting.”

 

“Let them wait,” Rhaegar said. His expression was pained now. “And please, you do not need to address me so formerly. We are more to each other than that.”

 

“I have not forgotten,” Ned replied vaguely, sourly.

 

When Ned gave no more, Rhaegar said, “Tell me about Freyja.” 

  
**********

Eddard Stark sat at the head of the banquet table, in the massive Great Hall of Winterfell, and he looked out over his family, subjects, counselors, and visitors—more than a hundred people, all stretched along the table for the welcoming feast—with a heavy heart. Of all these people before him, the one most on his mind was the one he most worried about on principle: his niece. Frey. Ned had always had a special relationship with her, had always felt the need to be both father and mother to her, to make up for the loss of her mother. But he was failing, he knew, at being her pseudo father—much less a mother, too.  

 

Ned had always made it a point to watch out for her, the last connection he had to his dead sister—especially given that she was unlike any other girl. A girl, he would admit, that was too much like her mother, and too wild to be a princess. She had been very much alone in the world that her father shaped, and Ned had jumped at the chance to have her foster under his care. Not out of obligation, but because he loved her more than he could ever say. Sometimes, he hated to admit, it seemed like he loved her more than his own children. Because of all the children living in Winterfell, none brought back the memories of his boyhood like Frey did. She was willful, her fierce determination and her warrior spirit all too familiar, and bittersweet to recall. Her refusal to back down; her fearlessness, and her compassion were just too much to handle at times. Oddly enough, though Lyanna had been a girl, Ned had always seen Brandon most in her. 

 

That was another reason why Ned worried about her so much, had always sought to know where she was. Frey loved her bow and arrows as much as Brandon had loved his sword, always showing off dazzling skills that left others envious, and Ned filled with pride and joy. He could easily picture Lyanna on the training ground if their father had allowed it, besting the men and putting them in their place. And Ned knew that if Lyanna were alive to see her daughter, she would have been beyond proud. For a girl nearing fifteen, it was amazing to watch her hold her own against grown men—and even beat them. He knew Lyanna would have embraced her, would have showered her in praise in front of everyone.

 

But Ned couldn’t help but worry. He wanted what was best for Frey, wanted her to be better where Lyanna and Brandon lacked. Deep down, Ned knew that his niece was going down a dangerous road; a road that had made his family suffer. She had the same young naïveté regarding what a true battlefield and what true bloodshed meant just like her mother. In the end, Lyanna knew what pain and death were like up close and personal—even though the end result was the birth of the only thing Lyanna had ever done right in her short life. Those experiences, however, were what Ned was desperately trying to shield Frey from. He wanted her safe and secure in Winterfell, living a happy life of peace and comfort. But he worried that the “wolf blood” would ruin that. 

 

It left Ned feeling confused all the time. He figured if he had tried to dissuade her it would have only made her alienate herself. He knew that was the case seven years ago, when Lyanna’s eyes looked up at him with a child’s face. He hadn’t known what else to do.

 

What bothered him the most was the king, Rhaegar’s words always echoing in the back of his mind:  _ She is the last one. Now, the dragon has three heads.  _ Ned hadn’t known what Rhaegar meant then, but he later learned of the prophecy surrounding Frey and her half-siblings. Ned thought himself a sensible man, usually not believing such nonsense, a silly song. But today, watching the king watch Frey, made Ned realize how special she was. It made him wonder if it was true. And that terrified him because Ned knew the song of ice and fire would be Frey’s song, that the hero was not a prince but a princess, Frey. And now her destiny was fast approaching, and there was nothing Ned could do to stop it. Exactly how long would it be until she knew the truth?

 

Ned took a long swig from his cup and shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking of such things. Now was a time for celebration. The king and his family had arrived in good health, Frey hadn’t even attempted to run off yet, and the snow was falling from the sky; Winterfell was being in cased by the blankets of white. With the snow falling heavy, and all of them safe in the castle. The warmth from the fire and multiple bodies kept everyone in good spirits. 

 

As he glanced around, everyone looked happy. People laughed and were entertained by the jugglers, bards and musicians. Ned watched as his children mixed and mingled with their friends and those who were of Northern blood. He hadn’t expected them to take kindly to those from the south. His wife sat idly by the queen, making decent small talk, while the royal children sat obediently beside their mother, keeping to themselves. For a moment, Ned couldn’t place two of the children, Jon and Frey. He felt himself tense. Like he, Jon and Frey didn’t do well with crowds and social gathering. The two of them had made it a bad habit of sneaking off when no was looking. Just as he was about to have one of the servants search for them, he spotted them huddled together, sitting amongst the young squires.

 

He looked fondly at the two of them, his niece and nephew, both refilling their wine cup of the sweet, fruity taste of summer wine, bringing a smile to their lips. He watched as Jon knifed a honeyed chicken whole and allowed the carcass to slide to the floor; Ghost and Runic ripped into their respective ends in savage silence. Ned wasn’t surprised to see the two direwolves, even though he had told all the children not to bring their wolves into the banquet. But no one had said an ill word about the pups so he permitted it. 

 

His brother, Benjen Stark, made way over to them. He ruffled Jon’s hair and mockingly bowed to Frey. The two children smiled. Benjen straddled the bench, striking up a conversation. Ned noticed when their eyes had shifted to him, then to the king, and then to the queen. Frey’s face was as cold as an ice sculpture when she looked at the queen. 

 

Rhaegar suddenly looked his youngest child’s way, as if Frey had called him by name. The king excused himself and stopped short in front of the three who were still sitting amongst the young squires. Ned could see Frey carefully studying her father’s face. Then Frey was standing up, following her father out into the night. 

 

Ned’s stomach twisted, and he drowned his cup. He wished he didn’t have to be sober for the storm about to come his way. 

  
**********

Frey stood in the yard, quiet and empty. A lone sentry stood high on the battlements of the inner wall, his  cloak pulled tight around him against the cold. He looked bored and miserable as he huddled there alone, but Frey would have traded places with him in a heartbeat. Other than him, Frey and her father were alone. The sounds of music and song spilled through the window behind them as they stared out in the darkness.

 

Frey’s mind spun with multiple possibilities as she stroked Runic’s fur, curled up at her feet, trying to comfort his human. Her life was about to change, and it felt like everything she held dear was about to come to an end. She kept her eyes on the inky blackness, wondering what turn her life would be taking at her father’s expense. She had a rough idea of what he was going to say, mayhaps demand. He sought to take her away from Winterfell, her family, everything she came to love just to pretend she was the perfect princess. Others take her if that was the case. 

 

Frey usually found comfort in the entirety of Winterfell, knowing every nook and cranny like the back of her hand, leaving no leaf or stone unturned. She had spent countless hours exploring with Robb and Jon when they had been children, getting lost in tales of valors and legends. Tales that sounded too great to be anything but fantasy. Frey and her cousins had always enjoyed listening to Uncle Ned comb through the books in the library. He would read them aloud, still turning pages as the early morning sun breached the horizon. There were only a few stories that the children could all agree on, and those were the ones surrounding warriors and ladies. Jon had favored the tales of The Young Dragon, King Daeron I Targaryen, and in turn Frey always wanted to hear about his sister, Princess Daena Targaryen, also known as Daena the Defiant. She would curl up at Robb’s feet, Rickon laying in her arms; all of them bleary-eyed and warm as Uncle Ned would continue to read on. 

 

But as Frey glanced at her father, his stoney face, it brought her back to reality. She wouldn’t be filled with love and warmth tonight. There would be no time for stories. She couldn’t remember the last time her father had been unreadable to her, so conflicted and unsure of how to approach a topic. Rhaegar, Frey knew, was a proud man—like all men in life—and in the early years of his reign, when he had been fresh faced and filled with ideas, he had seemed unstoppable. It was not in her father’s nature to be hesitant, to dance around the subject. 

 

“Aegon the Conqueror was an enigma to those of his time,” Rhaegar said out of nowhere, his voice heavy and eyes far away. “He came on the back of Balerion the Black Dread, armed with Blackfyre. His commanding presence drew men to his banners, and although he was counted amongst the greatest warriors of his age, he took no pleasure in feats of arm. He was faithful to his wives, and, as a king, he put great trust in his sisters and small council.”

 

Frey had heard the stories before; how could she not? Aegon the Conqueror was the first, and one of best Targaryen kings to ever rule the Seven Kingdoms. His long reign was a peaceful one, especially in his later years. The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros had been hammered into one great realm, all by the will of Aegon and his sisters.

 

“Rhaenys was the youngest, the one Aegon had married out of desire. She had been no true warrior,” Rhaegar continued to spin his tale, and Frey wished he would just get to the point. “She was a lover of music, dance and poetry, but she spent more time on the dragonback than her brother and sister combine, for she loved to fly. She once claimed that before she died she wanted to fly Meraxes, her dragon, across the Sunset Sea to see what lay upon its shores.”

 

Frey shifted her weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable and slightly certain as to where her father was taking this. She prayed that this was just his form of bonding, that he remembered her love for stories of the past, her love for her family’s history. That he wouldn’t be taking her away.

 

But, to her growing annoyance and anger, he just stood there, almost brooding, staring. He offered no reassurance of her fears. It only grew worse since she didn’t know what he was thinking. 

 

“Visenya, the eldest of the siblings, had been as much of a warrior as her brother had been. She was as comfortable on ringtail as in silk.” His voice was deep, controlled, and strong. But it didn’t settle her nerves like it had once when she had been a child. “She carried Dark Sister and was skilled in its use, having trained beside Aegon since childhood. She was stern, serious, and unforgiving, even to those who she loved best.”

 

Then, suddenly, he went silent. Frey ran her fingers through Runic’s fur, seeking some form of familiarity. 

 

“Visenya was the one who placed the Valyrian crown on her brother’s head and Rhaenys hailed him as,  _ Aegon, First of His Name, King of All Westeros, and Shield of His People _ . The dragons roared and the lords and knights sent up a cheer….but the small-folk, the fishermen and fieldhands and goodwives, shouted loudest of all.”

 

“I know all of this,” Frey said, snapping at him once more, not wanting to hear the story she grew up learning more than once. 

 

Her father turned to her, his eyes filled with longing. 

 

“When your mother discovered her pregnancy,” he asked, “when you had been born, did you know your name was supposed to be Visenya?”

 

Frey blinked. She hadn’t. 

 

“Maybe she didn’t want me to live up to my ancestor’s shade,” she said, voicing her opinion on the matter she never knew about. “Names hold meaning, after all. And Visenya was the sister people liked the least. Perhaps, just maybe, my mother wanted me to be my own person.”

 

Rhaegar sighed, turning away, and Frey was sure he hadn’t been listening to her. 

 

“I myself renamed you. I gave you a second name. You became Freyja Visenya—the third head—unlike your siblings, who were named respectively after your ancestors. Your mother thought it better to name you after her gods, to give you a piece of your Northern heritage—for you to remember her. Do you understand why she did that?”

 

“Because she thought Visenya would be too much of a burden to bear,” Frey repiled. “Because she knew that name would never suit me.”

 

Rhaegar shook his head.

 

“No,” he said. “It is because she knew what your future would hold. She knew your destiny was already mapped out. We all have a plan in life. For some, that plan has been made clear even before we are born. It is just how things work I suppose. There are those who spend their entire lives searching for their purpose, and they never find it. Then there are others who have no choice but to accept what is expected of them.”

 

Frey pondered about that.

 

“When I was young, there were whispers of a prophecy surrounding me. The prince that was promised, the prophesied savior. It was said that the prince would be,   _ Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star _ . Great-great Uncle Aemon thought maybe I was the prince who was promised, since the smoke would be from the fire at Summerhall and salt from the tears of those who cried there. And, for a while, I believed him,” Rhaegar said gravely, looking back at her again. “But then Aegon was born. A comet had been seen above King’s Landing the day he was born. It is also prophesied that the dragons would one day return, but for that to happen the dragon must have three heads.”

 

His deep purple eyes bore directly into Frey’s grey orbs, which were wide with unadulterated alarm.

 

“Are you saying that you want me to leave Winterfell?” She asked, appalled. “Are you saying that you want me to marry  _ them _ ?”

 

His face was solemn. 

 

“Don’t be naïve, Freyja. You are young, you cannot begin to understand the calamity of it all. But you will, one day you will learn. You have yet to understand the way of the world. Do not try to fight this. For this just doesn’t concern you—it concerns the entire kingdom.”

 

His words made her heart stop, left her shaking, but not from the cold. She wanted to run to Uncle Ned, to have him reassure her she wouldn’t be going anywhere, that she wouldn’t be doing anything she didn’t want to do. She felt like crying.

 

Frey stood still, only trembling, scowling at him. “You,” she seethed. “You, the one who sent me away in the first place—you want me only because of an augury.”

 

Her father’s face darkened. “I want you because you are my daughter.”

 

Frey threw her head back, laughing. “Only when it’s convenient for you.”

 

“Watch yourself,” he warned darkly. “Do you want our people to suffer? All for your pride?”

 

Frey couldn’t help herself. For the first time, in a very long time, she let her tears fall free. She was just so tired, and the night was still so young.

 

Rhaegar went to console her, slightly taken back by her display of emotions other than anger and indifference, but Frey stepped away from him. She lowered her head, turning, trying to hide her tears. She quickly wiped her tears away, grabbing ahold of herself.

 

“Freyja,” Rhaegar said softly, sighing.

 

She looked up at him, and his eyes looked haunted. 

 

“Of course I want you,” he said. “I have loved you before I held you. You, like your siblings, hold a special place in my heart. And I just want you safe. Do you understand?”

 

“What about my happiness?” She demanded to know. “Does that mean so little to you?”

 

Frey, for once in her life, was being selfish. Such mindset wasn’t in her nature; she had been tutored at a young age to put her kingdom first, above all else. But she just wanted to know that she would be happy. And if she had to fight for it, whatever the consequences, she would. 

 

And as Rhaegar stood there, solemn and silent, Frey knew what she had to do. 

 

“Frey? Are you alright?” A voice came. 

 

Frey spun around, surprised to see Jon standing in the yard, Ghost at his side. 

 

“How long have you been there, boy?” Her father asked, agitated. “I am speaking with my daughter.”

 

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” Jon said, but he didn’t sound sincere. Jon took a step forward, and Ghost ran to Runic, nuzzling their faces together. 

 

Frey smiled at her cousin. Jon shared the same streak of defiance that ran through her and Arya, but he had always been more reserved about it. 

 

“You sounded upset.” Jon focused on Frey. “Have you been crying?”

 

Frey briskly walked towards Jon and reached for him. His arms opened immediately, pulling her into a hug and pressing his face into her hair. 

 

She shoved her face into his chest, wiping away her tears with the furs that were wounded tightly around him. She peeked over her shoulder at her father, glaring at his face of indifference. She just wanted him and  _ his  _ family gone.

 

“I will not be another piece for you to just manipulate,” Frey said to him.

 

He stared back, his eyes flashed with hurt. 

 

“You are so much more than object of manipulation to me,” Rhaegar said. “But I am the king—I cannot simply just be your father. My country must come first. Why can you not understand that?”

 

Frey frowned. “Can the line not be drawn somewhere? Is there not a certain time when your family matters more than your kingdom? Is tying your children together in a never ending cycle of incest not that line? I am sure that one of their Martell cousins would suffice, just like your wife.”

 

“That was different,” Rhaegar scowled. 

 

“But was it really?” Frey pressed, not backing down. “Why won’t Arianne Martell do?”

 

Rhaegar stared down at his youngest child, Frey still wrapped tightly in Jon’s arms, protected. The bastard of Winterfell hadn’t said anything, but Rhaegar noted the steel look in his eyes that were so much like Frey’s. The king sighed, more exasperated than usual.

 

“We can skip all this foolishness,” he offered suddenly.

 

Frey eyed him skeptically. 

 

“Tomorrow you will marry them,” Rhaegar said with the authority of a king. It was the same voice that the Seven Kingdoms knelt to. “I’ll even allow it to be done by Northern standards. The three of you will stand before the weirwood tree in the godswood. You will wed before sundown.”

 

Frey stared at him, aghast horror written on her face.

 

“Is that an order,  _ my king _ ?” She asked, spitting out the title like it had left a bad taste in her mouth. “Am I to have no choice of whether or not I want to  _ marry  _ my  _ half-siblings _ ? Is this your final command?”

 

“It is!” Rhaegar finally snapped. His face began to twinge with red, and his eyes were hard with the same determination that flared in Frey’s. “If your mother were alive she’d have talked sense into you—she would have handled your disobedience before it came to this. But, unfortunately, she is dead. I am your father, Freyja—your only parent. You will be obedient, daughter. You will wed them. And that is the end of this matter. I do not care if you come willing, or kicking and screaming. This will happen, and nothing you say will make me reconsider.”

 

Frey swallowed her tears, knowing that they would do her no good. She stared at her father in disgust, wondering what her mother had ever seen in him. 

 

“So this is how the great King Rhaegar does good for the realm?” Frey said sarcastically, wanting him to feel pathetic. “By damning the next generation with the infamous Targaryen madness?”

 

Frey, not caring for his response, withdraw herself from Jon’s arms and marched back into the castle with Runic behind her. 

 

“FREYJA!” Her father yelled, and she was certain everyone in the Great Hall had heard him. 

 

Her steps never faltered, though. She briskly walked down the corridor and kept her head held high, eyes hard and focused with what was in front of her. As her heart constricted in her throat, Frey came to the realization that she didn’t want to be under the same roof with the royal family. Their presence was doing nothing good for her, or for the North. And she refused to be used by her father.

 

Frey couldn’t even begin to comprehend her father’s words. How could he ever think that she’d  _ marry  _ Rhaenys and Aegon, willing or not? She couldn’t even think of them in any positive way. She would rather die than be tied to them forever. He should have expected this resistance. Did he not know his own daughter?

 

When she finally reached her chambers, Frey made sure her boots were laced tightly, threw on her warmest furs, and grabbed her bow and arrows along with the sword Uncle Benjen had gifted to her years before. Then, she kept on marching. 

 

“Frey!” This time it was Jon, his worried voice carried through the halls. 

 

She refused to stop for him, for anyone. She just kept on walking, determined to get away from her father. She cared not for whatever might have been lurking in the night, out in the real world as Uncle Ned would have said. She would face it, head on. It didn’t matter if she met the same fate as her mother once had—it only mattered that she was free. At least, then, she could be happy, even if only for a moment. 

 

Frey reached the gates with Runic beside her, and the watchmen standing beneath the snow and dying torches stared at her with bewilderment. 

 

“Your Grace?” One of them asked. “It is late. Is something the matter?”

 

“Open the gates,” Frey demanded. 

 

“But, my lady,” another one spluttered, “a storm rages.”

 

Frey stood there, waiting impatiently. She had half the mind to demand to know if they were defying their princess, but Runic had begun to growl so low in his throat his whole body began to shake. They finally scrambled into action, not wanting to anger her or Runic. They shared a look of concern before they pushed the thick gates opened. 

 

The winter wind howled through the desolate night and bit at Frey’s skin the moment the gates had been slowly pulled back. The bleak grey clouds overhead reflected perfectly her grey mood inside. Snow was piling up in drifts, blinding the night with ice-white dust. She didn’t hesitate as she pulled her furs tighter, throwing her hood over her head. She stepped forward and snow instantly swallowed her shins.

 

Frey could feel the unusual edge to the night. Something wasn’t right. It made Runic’s hackles rise. She knew already the woods were filled with creatures and thieves, but she wondered if wildings were loitering about. She then remembered Bran telling her about the man who had been sentenced to die a few moons ago. Jon and Robb had later informed her of the man’s last testimony—that he had miraculously survived an attack issued by the Others, creatures that have not been seen for eight thousand years, considered to be extinct. She couldn’t help but ponder if the so called oathbreaker had every reason to deserted his post. 

 

Frey took a deep breath, knowing that she couldn’t turn back now. She took another step, and suddenly it was much easier to put one foot in front of the other. She was prepared for whatever the night had in store for her.

 

* * *

 

**Information/Credits/Disclaimers:**

 

—All characters and events belong to George R. R. Martin, and to the publishers Bantam Books (US, Canada), and Voyager Books (UK, Australia). Events from the TV show were created by David Benioff  and D. B. Weiss, based on  _ A Song of Ice and Fire  _ by George R. R. Martin. 

 

—This story was inspired by the incredible  [ Deus Swiftblade ](https://m.fanfiction.net/u/3611316/) and their story  [ Emergence of the Dragon ](https://m.fanfiction.net/s/12527409/1/Emergence-of-the-Dragon) . Check it out!

 

—For those wondering where they can find the estimates for the dates and years regarding certain events, look  [ here ](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1ZsY3lcDDtTdBWp1Gx6mfkdtZT6-Gk0kdTGeSC_Dj7WM/htmlview#) . 

 

—In this story, I will be referring to the White Walkers as “the Others”. In the books, "white walkers" is the name given to the creatures by wildlings, and with only a few wildling characters, the term is heard only seldom.

 

—Jon Snow is not the lovechild of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. In  **_my_** **_fictional_** universe he is the bastard son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne. 

 

—This chapter was not overlooked by a beta.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE shoutout to Lorelei for helping me figure out the a good, proper spelling for Freyja so it fits better in the world of ASOIAF! She’s absolutely amazing!!
> 
> And, so, I know I’m late with this update, but um.......what did y’all think of GOT season 8?? Let me know your thoughts in your comments, because BOY did I feel some type of way!

**Chapter 2:**

 

**_298 AC_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Nineteenth Day of the Fourth Moon_ ** **_  
_ ** ****_The Wolfswood, The North_

 

Frey trudged through the never ending snow, Runic pushing on with her. He would brush up against her leg sometimes, and the feel of his body was a nice reminder that she wasn’t alone. The snow whipped at her face, blinding her, and Frey could barely see a foot in front of her. The only light came from the full moon, glowing eerily through the clouds. Her bones ached from the cold, and she missed the warmth from Winterfell. She wanted to sit by the fireplace, wrapped up with her cousins, listening to Old Nan’s tales. 

 

She doubled her efforts and decided not to think of those things. She honestly didn’t know where she was going, she hadn’t thought about her destination. She just wanted to get away from her father. She wouldn’t be forced to marry her half-siblings—people she barely knew, especially to appease her father and the whole kingdom. She wasn’t ready to live her life by the hearth, with a baby latched to her nipple, thinking of what could have been. She would take her chances out here in the snow, dying be damned. 

 

The further Frey went, the higher the snow got. She was starting to waddle like a duck, the snow reaching her knees. She was lost, even though she didn’t want to admit it. And, of all nights, it was one of the worst summer snow storms there had ever been. She cursed her luck. But she could still feel the mysterious energy in the air, like lightning was about to strike any second, filling the space with white nose that would make your head feel like it was filled with cotton. The air was thick, as if the spirits were dancing around her; attempting to ensnare her into their realm. It felt like a thousand eyes were watching her every step, and she couldn’t help but wonder if they were waiting for her demise out in the middle of nowhere. 

 

Frey stopped atop a hill, and took in the horizon. Hope and drunken happiness filled her chest for the first time in hours. She could see the stars dancing above, the moon hanging lazily in the night sky, looming over her as her only companion besides Runic. She felt the draw, and Frey remembered what Old Nan used to say about full moons—they made people’s behavior sway; turning them into lunatics. This was the type of night that people of old times were afraid to venture outside, when the villagers would board their windows and doors shut. But Frey didn’t feel like she was losing her mind. In fact, she felt free. She started to wonder if she actually wasn’t lost at all. Maybe the moon had been guiding her since the beginning.

 

Frey took in a deep breath, the chill filling her lungs, making her cough. She embraced the feeling. Frey crested a hill and caught a glimpse of a structure in the not too far distance. She trekked closer and realized that it was a fortress. Not just any fortress—it was the Dreadfort.

 

The walls were high, accompanied by massive towers, and were made out of stone with triangular merlons that looked like sharpstone teeth. Frey had never been inside, but she had heard from others the halls were dim and smoky, with rows of torches grasped by skeletal human hands jutting from the walls. The Dreadfort was ill omened, Frey knew that much. It was rumored the Boltons, who possessed the ancient fortress, kept torture chambers and a special room where they hung the flayed skins of their enemies, including several Kings in the North.

 

Frey knew her history well, and she knew the Boltons were an ancient and powerful house of the north who once ruled as Red Kings. Their land reached from the Last River and the White Knife to the Sheepshead Hills. It was suggested that the legendary Night's King was a Bolton. 

 

Since the Long Night the Red Kings were bitter rivals of the Kings of Winter, the Starks of Winterfell—Frey’s ancestors. During one of the wars between Houses Bolton and Stark, King Royce II succeeded in taking and burning Winterfell. His namesake King Royce IV Bolton, also known as Royce Redarm because he tore out the entrails of his prisoners with his bare hands, did the same three hundred years later. The Boltons were said to have flayed the skins of several Stark lords and hung them in the Dreadfort. According to rumor, some Bolton lords wore the flayed skins of their enemies—including Starks, such as the son of Bael—as cloaks.

 

The practice of flaying their enemies gave the Boltons a sinister reputation, but a thousand years ago the Boltons bend their knees to Winterfell and agreed to abandon their practice of flaying. For many centuries the Boltons have remained loyal to the Starks, although rumors persisted that they continued to flay their prisoners in secret and maintained a hidden chamber in the Dreadfort to display the skins of their enemies.

 

Frey didn’t care to know if the rumors were true, however. If what was whispered about Domeric Bolton’s untimely death was true, then Frey was certain that the Bastard Bolton would have no qualms of killing her, princess of the Seven Kingdoms or not. He would probably enjoy it. She had heard from many people of Ramsay Snow, and that he was a sadist; cruel, savage and wild, taking delight in torturing others. He was allegedly quite fond of the old Bolton custom of flaying their enemies alive. The story went he would give a quick death to women who gave him good sport (after raping them first), then flays their corpses. 

 

Panicky, Frey moved away, feeling more and more beside herself since the fortress was still in clear view. Her legs were trembling, toes already numb, as she stumbled down the hill. The snow worsened, the cold biting her bones. She turned, half hoping to see Winterfell in the distance, but she was too far out; she knew that. She also knew she was too cold to go back.

 

As Frey continued to look over her shoulder, too cold and too lazy to move in the moment, she wondered if she had acted boldly, foolishly even. Was she being naïve?

 

“Halt! What is your business here?” A voice shouted.

 

A guardsmen, dressed in fur over chainmail, had spotted her. She heard footsteps crunching in the snow, coming towards her.

 

Frey didn’t want to cause a commotion. She doubted Lord Bolton would be a warm, gracious host at any hour.

 

She clicked her tongue to Runic, the two of them heading into the thick of the storm, further back into the woods. She had lost her sense of direction miles back, but she still felt inspired to follow the moon. She knew that the answer to gaining her freedom was out there somewhere, and she wouldn’t rest until she found it.

 

**********

 

Frey tripped for the umptenth time, feeling like a walking icicle. Runic was still at her side, keeping pace, and she wondered how much further they could go. She looked for shelter, but kept an eye out for crofters, foresters and hunters. She was bound to come across a deserted crofter’s cottage at some point, she hoped. Maester Luwin always advised the children that the wolfswood was full of danger. The night came alive with the howls of distant packs, and some not so distant. Runic didn’t seem bothered about the howls, and that brought Frey some relief. Her fingers and toes were absolutely numb. She realized how dire her situation was. She wondered if her father, who only saw her as a means to an end, cared that she was gone. 

 

Frey felt a deep wave of anguish as she continued on in the snow, marching as her limbs ached in protest, but she couldn’t afford to stop. She still wasn’t sure where she was, or where she was heading, and she needed to find some form of shelter soon, or she and Runic were bound to freeze to death. As if to cruelly mock her, the winds picked up and Runic whined. Frey looked down at him and felt disgusted with herself. She should have made him stay behind at Winterfell, at least he would have been warm and safe. 

 

When Frey paused, apprehensive about the journey onwards, she realized that she could hear running water in the distance, and blinked, taking in the numerous piney woods. Through the thick whiteness, Frey could make out the grey-green sentinels, spruce, fir, and soldier pines. She was surprised to have made it all the way to the Northern mountains.

 

The mountains were dangerous to journey on—even during the day with a group. The clans who inhabited the mountains were quarrelsome and rugged; hardy people who, like other northmen, claimed descent from the First Men and worshipped the old gods. There were at least forty mountain clans, large and small, the most prominent of which were the First Flints, the Wulls, the Norreys, the Burleys, the Harclays, the Liddles, and Knotts. The most powerful of the clans were the Wulls. 

 

Frey had been a girl of only ten summers when she had first laid eyes on the Wulls. There had been an excessive amount of issues with the free folk that year, and many noble houses had answered the Night’s Watch by preparing their men for battle. The Wulls had been asked to help, too, and they had showed up at Winterfell with their banners of three wooden buckets, brown on blue, with a border of grey and white checks.

 

The clans got along swimmingly with her uncle, but Frey had never personally met any of them, and she didn’t know what they really thought of her. The mountain clans weren’t too fond of those from the south, and they especially did not bow to the Targaryen monarchy. Anything could have happened to her, she knew, but as another gust of wind kicked around, making her bones ache with an even deeper chill, Frey made way past the trees and the snow, more determined than ever to find shelter. 

 

She was thankful for the thickness of the trees, and that the branches held off a good portion of the snow. She even felt a little warm, if that was possible. Frey quickly shook off the piles of snow that dampened her furs, and removed the hood to clean off her hair. Runic followed suit, his tongue sticking out and tail wagging happily. Frey dug into the pouch wrapped around her waist and held out a piece of jerky for him. Runic took the piece and swallowed it practically whole.

 

Frey smoothed her hand over his head. “Don’t worry, boy. I’ll find us somewhere to rest soon.”

 

Frey didn’t have time to waste, and she continued deeper into the forest, keeping an eye out for any form of shelter and danger. The storm wasn’t going to be letting up anytime soon, and Frey didn’t want to spend another minute out in it. She wanted to rest her limbs, wake to a new day, and decide where she was going. Perhaps she would venture to the Wall—Uncle Benjen would be there, and even though he would berate her for scaring everyone to death, he would let her stay for as long as she needed. Great-great-great Uncle Aemon would be there as well, and Frey would like to finally meet her ancient family member.

 

The deeper Frey went, the higher the snow rose. It was up to her knees again, and as she continued to trek, the strange animal noises filled her ears. Twigs snapped behind her, the tree branches rustled as something disturbed them, and at one point something grumbled and moaned a little too close for comfort. Runic instantly got on the defense, and Frey didn’t bother to stick around to figure out what beast it was. She positioned her bow, ready for a confrontation, but she wasn’t sure if she would be able to use it. Her fingers were still numb. 

 

Frey slid down a small slope, and stopped, taking in the body of water in front of her. The moonlight reflected off the water, making it glisten, and Frey recognized it immediately: The Bay of Ice. Her Uncle Ned had brought her here once, when she had been a child, during a visit to Bear Island that laid within the Bay. Wildling raiders from the Frozen Shore sometimes raided across the Bay of Ice, attacking both Bear Island and the lands around Deepwood Motte. The ironborn at the height of their power had been able to send longships into the Bay of Ice and controlled Bear Island for several centuries until losing it in a wrestling match to the King in the North, who gifted it to a loyal retainer—who became the founder of House Mormont.

 

Frey walked towards the lake, suddenly parched from breathing in nothing but cold air. She tripped and stumbled over the rocks and the slick area surrounding the Bay as she reached the edge. Oddly enough, despite its namesake, the Bay was free of snow and ice. It was sort of magical to Frey.

 

Frey knelt at the edge, shivering from the cold, and looked down. In the water, reflecting off of the moonlight, was her face staring back at her. Her dark brown hair was matted and wet, making it look black. Her eyes were more greyer and lighter, and her high cheekbones were red as an apple. Her delicate features looked nothing like her father or half-siblings. Her eyes, although heavy and wanting nothing more than to close for much needed sleep, were filled with wonder and determination. 

 

As she gazed at her reflection, Frey remembered what Old Nan once told her:  _ the gods are everywhere, and they will listen when you can look at yourself and admit defeat. _

 

Frey, for the first time in a very long time, knew that she needed help. She needed guidance to help her through her confusion and loss of direction. She closed her eyes, admitting defeat, and prayed.

 

_ Gods, here me and grant me guidance. I do not know where I am going. Give me a sign, and I shall fulfill whatever you ask in return. Show me which road to follow. Give me a chance to live my life in freedom. In my own way. Allow me to become more than I ever thought possible, to surpass my own limitations. I shall do whatever it takes to obtain such freedom—I swear it on my mother’s grave.  _

 

Frey opened her eyes, still kneeling and still so cold, but somehow she felt a little less worried about her journey. It had felt liberating to pray with all her might, to get lost in her senses as she began to realize that she was in way over her head and needed assistance from forces greater than herself. 

 

Snowflakes began to dance to the ancient songs of the winds, and she smiled. She felt the change in the atmosphere almost instantly, like someone a draped her in a blanket of peace. She looked back down at the water, ready to take a sip, when she saw something in the distance that took her breath away. 

 

Something that wasn’t one of many trees, nor an animal that lived in the forest was staring at her—and it looked oddly enough like a dragon. It’s eyes were a haunting red; glowing like Lannister red, a freshly polished ruby red. The scales were purple and black, and its face was long and menacing with an eternal scowl. The dragon opened its mighty jaw, and Frey scrambled backwards, not knowing what the beast was planning to do. When nothing happened, she peered back into the distance but saw nothing—nothing hadn’t even been distributed. 

 

Frey slowly stood on shaking legs, looking at her surroundings, expecting to see the beast somewhere. 

 

She found nothing. 

 

It was only her and Runic. 

 

She looked down at the Bay, and saw her pale face staring back. 

 

She pressed a hand over her racing heart, feeling it hammering in her throat. What she had just seen couldn’t have been real. It had to have been her imagination—she was delirious from lack of food, water and sleep. Because dragons have been extinct for almost one hundred and fifty years. The only remaining traces of the dragons were the skeletal remains and dragon eggs which have turned to stone. Frey was certain she was losing her mind. 

 

Frey flinched as cold as ice winds whipped around her again out of nowhere. She instantly started to shiver violently, throwing her fur hood back on in a pathetic attempt to shield her face from the extreme cold. A terrifying noise came from far back in the woods, something like cracking ice on a lake, or sharp icicles penetrating the ground with great force. Runic heard it, too, and got in a low crouch, growling like Frey had never heard before, and was ready to attack. Frey spun back around, bow and arrow ready to strike, and saw something burning like ice yards away from her through the trees. It looked like a blue fire, but there was no smoke. Only that eerie blue glow. 

 

Frey felt every hair on her body stand up, her gut twisting uncomfortably as she sensed something unnatural, and possibly dangerous, nearby. She felt like something was watching her at every direction. A part of her wanted to scream and run, hoping that someone would hear her and take pity on her to help, but her rational side told her shut up and keep moving on. 

 

Frey turned her back on the glowing light, and it made her skin crawl. She continued to hike through the woods, weaving amongst the trees, until she reached a clearing. She stopped short, taken by surprise once more. There, standing in the middle of the small clearing, was a woman, staring directly at Frey—like she had been expecting her. 

 

The woman wasn’t old, but she wasn’t young either. She stood calmly in the snow, looking at Frey like she knew her, like one would an old friend. The woman was lovely, but her skin looked to be white as the moon; almost like it was as cold as ice. Her eyes, which were as blue as the stars, pierced through Frey. There were no whites, just all blue, with no pupils. It was unlike anything Frey had ever seen before. And they made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, urging her to run away this time. But, for some reason, she couldn’t. It felt like her feet were frozen.

 

“A full moon,” the lady said. Her voice was unnaturally soft, like she was humming a toon. “A time of completion, the height of power—the realization of your desires and peak of clarity. It is also when the dead and the living spawn an unholy union.”

 

“Which are you?” Frey found herself asking, curious, though it was rude.

 

A devilish grin split the woman’s face, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Runic snarled. 

 

“You know which I am,” the woman said. “Which are you?”

 

Frey felt a shiver run up her spine. “I’m alive.” There was a pause. “At least, I think I am.”

 

“You think? In my eyes, you are more alive than any man I have ever met.”

 

Frey, pondering the cryptic words, wanted to rebuke the woman’s claim. Frey didn’t feel very much alive in her heart. 

 

“What is it that you seek, Princess Freiya?” The woman asked.

 

Frey didn’t even question how she knew her name. “I want my freedom,” she said. “I want to be like the wind. Wild and free.”

 

The woman regarded Frey like she was a curious kitten, her head tilting to the side; hair as white as snow tumbling to her chest. Their eyes remained locked as a hefty silence fell around them.

 

Frey shifted her feet as the silence stretched on forever, her heart quickening again. Why was she even talking about her life to this stranger? This stranger who just so happened to know her name. 

 

“Why do you ask?” Frey wondered aloud, breaking the quietness. “Can you help me?”

 

The woman’s eyes seemed to burn brighter. 

 

“I cannot personally help you, but anything is possible during a full moon,” she said. “You remind me of a man I once loved. He wanted something so desperately that he gave up everything he had ever known to have it. So, princess, what are you willing to sacrifice?” 

 

“Anything,” Frey said immediately, not even thinking of what was coming out of her mouth. “I would sacrifice anything.”

 

There was another blast of extreme coldness, and Runic whined as he pressed himself against Frey. 

 

“You were born with a destiny,” the woman said matter of factly. “Yet you do not wish to choose the path already carved out for you. There’s a constant battle between fate and free will inside of you. And you are uncertain of which side will prevail.”

 

“What happened to your lover?” Frey asked. 

 

“He lost his force of will. He got what he wanted, and he forsake the gods in the end. He gave up everything, and he lost everything, too.”

 

“I will sacrifice,” Frey said again, more bass in her voice. “I do not care for this destiny. Nor do I want it. I would give anything to be free of it.” 

 

The woman walked lightly on the snow and left no prints to mark her passage. Her movements were lightning quick and graceful. “Swear to me,” the woman said. “Swear to me that you will pay the price.”

 

Frey stepped forward, suddenly only inches away from the woman. “I swear to you, on this night, I will pay the price for my freedom.”

 

A bone chilling mist clung to every surface in the early cold night. It thickened into a dense fog. 

 

The woman simply stared at Frey, but a look of respect crossed her face. She nodded, pleased.

 

“You will be a warrior, Princess Freiya, and so much more.” The woman’s eyes were brighter than anything Frey had ever seen before, and her voice was so loud that it echoed around them. “Your name will live on forever. Truly immortal until the end of days. But you will also be a great ruler—a queen with true power. The Seven Kingdoms will bow to  _ you _ .”

 

Frey swallowed as her heart felt like it was going to burst from her chest. The woman spoke as if though she knew what was going to happen.

 

“But you will be tempted by darkness, just like I once was,” the woman said with an undertone of bitterness in her voice. “There will be a great struggle between what is right and what is wrong, light versus dark. If you can overcome yourself, then freedom will truly be yours.”

 

Frey narrowed her eyes, thinking that the woman perhaps  _ was _ crazy—affected by the full moon like in Old Nan’s tales. And maybe she was a free folk, one of the women of the Frozen Shore. But she wasn’t cladded in sealskins. And, if she was a free folk from the Frozen Shore, Frey wondered which clan she belonged to. There were those who wore antlers on their hats and others who wore walrus tusks. The two sorts did not get along with each other. But the two clans had a common rival, the cannibal ice-river clans who lived near the great ice rivers beyond the Wall, north of the Frozen Shore and south of the Lands of Always Winter. 

 

“How?” Frey asked, obviously suspicious. “There’s no way you can know that. You’re delusional.”

 

The woman smiled, and it was pretty smile, one that usually was always on Sansa’s soft, rose petal lips. Frey was enchanted by how utterly beautiful the woman was, and she hadn’t even noticed that the woman had moved closer, brushing their fronts together. 

 

“I have waited a long time for you, Freiya Visenya Targaryen.” The woman’s face softened, looking at Frey like Aunt Catelyn had looked at her children many times before. “I have the utmost faith that you will surpass all what is expected of you. You are so special.”

 

The thick fog became so dense that Frey couldn’t even see her own two hands in front of her. The only thing visible were the woman’s glowing blue eyes, and then Frey couldn’t see them either.

 

As fast as it came, the fog disappeared just as quickly. When Frey could finally see again, the woman was gone. Runic moves towards where the woman had been standing, sniffing at the spot. He looked back at Frey and whined, confused. There was absolutely no trace of the strange woman.

 

Frey could only blink. She questioned her sanity.

 

Then, as if it were a chain reaction from the cosmos, the heavens opened up and a shriek unlink anything she had ever heard descended from the sky. Frey looked up, still frozen in place, watching as a comet lit up the sky. The front made its bold way across the winter sky, the tail becoming a fine decoration to lift Frey’s spirits. It was ablaze in the sky, a brilliant streak of white tinged blue that caressed the heavens. Frey watched it, eyes wide in a way that exaggerated the long lashes that Sansa loved so much. She let out a sigh, she didn't know she was holding, and let her shoulders hang loose. Though she was closer to fifteen, in that moment she was five again, holding her uncle’s hand as he named the constellations, always telling a heroic story for each.

 

She instantly thought of the reflection she had seen by the Bay. 

 

She didn’t know how, she just knew—she knew that the shriek had belonged to a dragon. It was calling out to her, just beyond the clearing. 

 

Frey didn’t waste anytime. She forgot about her confusion, about the strange woman who was just suddenly gone, about what it all meant. She didn’t even think of the noise. It was a roar, but nothing like any animal in the north. It was so primal, so fierce, so ancient that a smarter man would have turned the other way. But Frey had come this far, she  _ couldn’t  _ turn back now, and the sound itself just called out to her. It beckoned for her soul, for her mind—a connection like the one she shared with Runic was already forming in the back of her mind. 

 

Frey dashed through the woods, tearing at the branches and bushes that got in her way. She hadn’t noticed that the snow was again knee deep, that the branches snapped back at her and scraped her face with its sharp edges. She didn’t feel anything except the urgency to get to the shrieking dragon. 

 

The dragon, she knew, was calling out to her—for what, she didn’t know. But she was going to find out. 

 

* * *

  
  


**_Twentieth Day of the Fourth Moon_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Winterfell, The North_ **

 

Rhaenys sat in her private solar, a raging fire that had been burning for hours was finally dying down, leaving the room too warm for her liking. She was sweating a bit at the brow, and she brushed the beads away with the back of her hand and gave a frustrated huff. Aegon, who sat beside her, holding her hand, glanced down at her with a cocked eyebrow. She refused to meet his gaze, though. In fact, she didn’t know why she was holding his hand. Maybe it was because she was used to reaching out to him for comfort, her brother and husband, but she was mad at him right now. At least, she was supposed to be. 

 

Freiya was missing out there in a random summer snowstorm, and Aegon wasn’t concerned about their younger sister in the slightest. 

 

For as long as she could remember, Aegon had never been fond of Freiya, and Rhaenys had never truly asked him why. Because, for Rhaenys, she loved Freiya as much as she loved Aegon, and she didn’t understand why he was so persistent to continue to act like a child. They were older now—adults who were meant to be together whether they liked it or not.

 

Only, Rhaenys hadn’t expected Freiya to run away. She knew that there would be yelling; words would be said from both parties that would cut deeply, and the resistance was expected as well. From what little Rhaenys could recall about her sister, Freiya had always been stubborn and marched to the beat of her own drum. She had even counted on Freiya embedding practice dummies with her arrows, imagining that it was their heads, wishing she could make them all disappear then and there. And Rhaenys had always admired that characteristic of Freiya. Her little sister had never been shy about grabbing fate with her bare hands, and shaping it to her will.

 

So she didn’t know why she was so surprised by Freiya’s disappearing act. It was such a Freiya thing to do. Why hadn’t she counted on it? Maybe, quite possibly, a part of Rhaenys had hoped that Freiya had missed them—missed her. But it was plain to see that Freiya had been doing just fine without them. And that hurt Rhaenys more than anything. 

 

She loved her little sister; she had missed her, and she hadn’t felt complete without her. Aegon felt the same way. Rhaenys knew, he was just too busy clinging to their mother’s skirt to admit it. 

 

“Where are you going?” Aegon asked when Rhaenys detached their hands and stood up. He had been asking her that a lot in the past two days. It seemed like he expected her to vanish, too.

 

“I’ve decided to attend the sewing lessons,” she said with a pretty smile that always got her what she wanted. “It would do us good to socialize with Freiya’s cousins.”

 

“They don’t care for us,” he muttered, unwilling to follow in her footsteps.

 

Rhaenys gave him a sharp look. “I don’t care,” she snapped. “I want to know them. This may be our last chance to win Freiya over—don't make this more difficult, Egg.”

 

Aegon stared at Rhaenys, her face so similar to their mother’s, except the queen’s was lined from the hardships in life. But he saw that determination in her dark eyes flashing back at him, the same determination that he wore himself.

 

“Shall we pretend that she hasn’t died already?” He asked.

 

“Don’t say things like that,” Rhaenys snapped. “She is alive.”

 

Aegon rolled his eyes, feeling exasperated already. 

 

“Did you honestly think she’d go through with father’s ridiculous plan?” He asked.

 

Rhaenys frowned at him. “You’re so pessimistic.”

 

Aegon said nothing as he waited for his sister to give him her honest answer, but she just averted her eyes. When Aegon finally caught her gaze, his face was soft, but he gave her a look.

 

“We knew this would happen,” he said, his voice serious.

 

“I didn’t think she’d run away from us!” Rhaenys insisted, not able to keep her thoughts to herself anymore. “We’re her siblings! The three of us were meant to be together! I don’t care about some stupid prophecy! I just want Freiya with us!”

 

Aegon entwined their fingers again, squeezing Rhaenys gently. 

 

“But she doesn’t want to be with us,” he said. “You’re the only one who’s ever wanted the three of us to be together. That’s  _ your  _ dream, Rhaenys—not ours.”

 

“She did once. But then you ruined it,” she said. 

 

Aegon saw the accusation in her eyes. Freiya had tried, once, and Aegon had sent her away in a fit of tears. The next day, Freiya had been sent off to Winterfell with no warning whatsoever. Their father thought they needed space, and that would fix whatever issues Aegon and her had. Rhaegar and Rhaenys now knew that he had been wrong. 

 

“The past is the past, Rhae. I can’t change anything. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.” Aegon sighed, annoyed. “Aren’t you tired of having the same arguments time and time again? Do you think I always want to talk about what could have been?”

 

Rhaenys paused, hopeful at his words.

 

“What do you mean, what could have been?” She asked.

 

Aegon flushed. “I only meant it’s silly to dwell on things that never passed.”

 

“No, you didn’t mean it that way,” Rhaenys said, curious and hopeful.

 

The tips of Aegon’s ears reddened. “Stop hearing what you want to hear! You always do that when she’s involved. I stand by what I said; Freiya does not care for us, and she certainly does not love us. She’s the happiest I have ever seen her—here, in the North, surrounded by her mother’s family. Do you want to take that from her?”

 

Rhaenys glanced up at Aegon through her dark bangs. She suddenly had no answer, her mouth had gone dry. 

 

Aegon continued, “Because I think she would hate us even more if we did.”

 

Rhaenys stomach churned into knots. “Freiya is happy here,” she whispered. 

 

“Exactly. She belongs in the north, Rhae. Just like we belong in the south.”

 

Shortly after Aegon’s insisting she let go of her silly, childish dream of the three of them being together, the argument ran its course and Aegon had nothing else to say. Rhaenys went on her way. 

 

Rhaenys trudged out of their chamber, through the halls, and still made way to the sewing lessons. It was surprisingly dark inside Winterfell, except for the streaking beams of light from the high arched windows. Rhaenys didn’t truly feel up to socializing with anyone, she wanted to be alone. But this was for Freiya. She would do anything for her other half. 

 

* * *

  
  


**_Twentieth Day of the Fourth Moon, Hours Later_ **

**_The Wolfswood, The North_ **

 

Frey bolted through the snow, her feet kissing the ground. Her clothing and hair, slick with perspiration, clung to her skin. She swatted at the thick branches in her way. Sweat rolled down her skin in thick, salty beads. She could feel her heart throbbing inside her chest. She was exhausted. She didn’t know where she was nor did she know where she was heading. She had no idea what time it was, and she had no clue what day. All she knew was that she had to keep running forward. Not stopping for anything. 

 

She had to get to the dragon. 

 

Heart pounding, rasping throat, leaden feet, and heavy legs had brought her directly towards a sight unlike anything she had ever seen before—something she had only heard tales about. Her father and Uncle Viserys use to tell Frey and her half-siblings the ancient legends about dragons. And even though the walls of the throne room were decorated with the skulls of the Targaryen’s dragons, Frey had always wondered if it had all been true. She had tried to imagine what the beasts of legends looked like, and as a child she had spent countless hours tracing every skull; visualizing how big, mighty, and ferocious they had actually been.

 

Nothing had prepared her for what was in front of her.

 

Because, hardly fifteen feet away from her, was a  _ real  _ living, breathing dragon. It was beautiful, and magnificent, and majestic—and utterly terrifying as she started to realize what she was face to face with it. The dragon was laying on its side, screeching, trying to balance itself, but was unable to. Frey could see that one of its wings appeared to be broken. The size of the wings alone were massive; each scale a midnight purple outlined in the darkest of black. More than three dozen trees had been flattened by the dragon’s plummet, creating a large clearing with its body. It laid close to the Frozen Shore, a stretch of coastline that sat far northwest of Westeros and beyond the Wall. 

 

Frey knew that she resembled a fish out of water, her mouth hanging wide open. She couldn’t process what she was looking at. It was a  _ dragon _ . Here, in Westeros. In the north, in the wolfswood. It was impossible. Despite the fact that dragons were extinct, Frey knew that the creatures didn’t fare well in the harsh conditions of the north, and therefore the Targaryens had rarely visited Winterfell during their prime. That being said, Frey doubted that the tale of the dragon Vermax laying a clutch of eggs in the depths of the crypts of Winterfell was true. 

 

She rubbed her eyes and pinched herself for extra measure, making sure that she wasn’t losing her mind.

 

As the dragon continued to shriek, slashing its claws at the snow, coating it red with its blood, Frey knew that she wasn’t just imagining things. It was wounded, and it most certainly was a dragon. 

 

Frey should have fled to the closest castle and inform them of her finding, and while a part of her wanted to, she didn’t. No one would believe, she knew that. They wouldn’t look at her as Lyanna Stark’s daughter anymore, but as a Targaryen—another one descending into madness. But, at the same time, she knew that if she didn’t act the dragon could kill her. She knew what they were capable of, and she didn’t want to find out if fire couldn’t harm her. 

 

Frey was still internally debating with herself when the shrieking ceased. She focused back on the dragon, and was startled to find it staring at her. Eyes locked, Frey went rigid, still as stone. Perhaps she was just plainly stupid for not running, but something unnatural and primitive chased her fears away in a matter of seconds. 

 

The dragon blinked slowly, looking at her with curiosity and distrust. The dragon looked just as surprised by her presence. It’s eyes were a huge, glowing red that just seemed to ooz ancient knowledge and were just as lively as any humans. The prickling sensation in the back of her mind had returned, and Frey realized it was the same dragon she had seen staring back at her in the Bay of Ice. 

 

Frey held her breath, unsure of what the dragon would do—not wanting to do anything to result in her death. It just stared at her, though. It’s wound was still bleeding, staining the snow, and it’s body heat then turned it into a pool of red. It pained Frey to see it like that. She wanted to help it, feeling as moved as she would have been if Runic were wounded in any way. 

 

Frey’s heart went out to the dragon as it attempted to lift its splintered wing. The pain must have been great because it’s breathing was labored and harsh. She decided then that she would not leave it to suffer. She had to help it, in any way possible. 

 

But the desire to help the dragon didn’t just stem from her fascination and pity—Frey felt a peculiar connection with the beast, and likened it to the same one she shared with Runic since the day Jon had placed the pup in her arms. And, just like with Runic, the sensation of it all just felt natural, like she was being reunited with another piece of herself that she hadn’t realized was missing. She stretched and strained her mind, trying to understand the dragon in a way only she could do with Runic. She sensed its power and fierceness, but also the pain and worry over its wing. Gaining just that little insight was enough for Frey to resolve that the dragon and she were bonded in a way no men—beside her cousins—could ever hope to understand.

 

Frey took a step forward, and the dragon just continued to watch her with guarded curiosity. She froze when she heard footsteps crunching loudly, and laughter that was colder than the snow. The dragon’s massive body hid her from plain sight, and she peered over it, surprised to see a guardsman in fur wearing a pale pink cloak decorated with red teardrops—giving him away as one of House Bolton’s sergeants. If the man was shocked to see the dragon, he didn’t show it. He just sauntered closer, using his spear to act like an extension of his arm. 

 

Then, like a venomous snake, the sergeant jabbed the blade into one of the tender spots on the dragon, making the most horrendous shriek erupted from its mouth. 

 

“It’s an actual fucking dragon!” The man howled with cruel laughter and stabbed the dragon again. 

 

Frey flinched and bowed forward slightly, curling into herself as if she had been stabbed, too. The man was obviously taking his time torturing the beast, taking advantage of its wounded state before he killed it. His intentions angered Frey. 

 

“Give me my axe, boy!”

 

The boy, only a few years older than Bran, looked as if though he had pissed him. He was so stricken with fear and amazement that he fumbled with the sergeant’s weapon before properly handing it over to him. 

 

Frey felt ice course through her veins as she watched the blade shone in the moonlight. The sergeant cautiously gagged where the dragon’s blind spot was—right where it’s long neck and shoulder met—and twirled the axe around.

 

“No one would fucking believe me if I didn’t bring it’s head back,” he said more so to himself than to the boy, obviously full of glee at his find. The tales and songs would be sung about him for centuries to come, not even to mention the notoriety and fame he would achieve as well. “My song will reign as fucking supreme—the man who killed a fucking dragon!”

 

“You haven’t killed it, though,” the boy squeaked, sounding frightened to death, but still pointed out the simple facts. “You found it like this.”

 

The boy cried out, probably pissing himself again when the sergeant raised the axe to his throat.

 

“I’ll tell everyone that it ate you whole, and I avenged you by killing it,” the man hissed threateningly. “So which will it be? Did I kill to save  _ our  _ lives, or because your mother won’t have a body to bury when I return?”

 

The boy’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He wisely kept his mouth shut. 

 

Turning back to the dragon, the man loosened his grip on the handle only to tighten it again, struggling to find a comfortable hold for the perfect swing; for the man was no fool—he knew he may only have one chance.

 

The dragon struggled to lift itself up, to fly away and burn the threat, but his wing hindered his every move. The huge head swirled in Frey’s direction then, those red eyes begging her to help. 

 

Frey felt her heart lurch. 

 

“ _ NO! _ ” 

 

Again, she was running. She was so tired of running, but she had to make sure that the blade didn’t touch the dragon. Neither of them would be able to withstand another painful jab. She didn’t think that confronting House Bolton’s sergeant would cause even more bad blood for her maternal family—she didn’t even think about how she was alone in the middle of nowhere with these men. She thought only of saving the dragon,  _ her  _ dragon she decided then and there.

 

Her bow and arrow was drawn, aimed directly at the sergeant.

 

The man was absolutely stunned to see another person outside in the weather, especially a young maid. He glanced at the arrow, and Frey could see him debating on if she truly knew how to use it. Finally, he lowered the axe. 

 

Frey’s aim had always been good and true, never wavering in the slightest ever since she mastered her first weapon of choice. And, in the moment where she possibly could be taking another’s life, she didn’t falter. 

 

“Drop your axe,” she demanded, sounding like a true princess then. Frey had never needed a deep, commanding voice like most men. Her piercing grey eyes were usually enough for people to take her seriously. 

 

“Who are you to command me?” The man bristled with anger, obviously not knowing that his tone alone could have served as his death sentence, let alone having his weapon raised at her. 

 

“I am Freiya Visenya,” she declared, “the daughter of King Rhaegar Targaryen.” She saw no reason to put an emphasis on her father’s title, his name alone was enough.

 

The man’s wicked smile grew.

 

“The half breed cunt,” he mocked, looking highly amused now that he knew who she was. “You’re a long way from your castle, princess. Out here you’re just another girl—another cunt to stick my dick into.”

 

His eyes roamed her body without shame, looking her up and down, licking his lips like he was some half starved animal. He took a threatening step closer.

 

“Do you think anyone will hear you scream, princess? I could fuck you in hundred different ways again, and again, and again until I finally fill your cunt with my seed, and no one would hear your cries.”

 

Simultaneously, Runic snarled in warning and the dragon began to huff, obviously trying to breathe fire, but was unsuccessful. The sergeant looked at the beast and blinked, almost as if he had forgotten it was there. When he was certain that the beast was too labored to do any sort of damage, he glanced back at Frey.

 

“I’m going to fuck you, girl.” He snapped at her suddenly, disturbed by the two mighty beast who obviously wanted to protect her. “But today is your lucky day. I’ll give you a taste of my cock, and then I’ll let you go back home—I’ll even let you keep the bastard you’ll birth afterwards. But this’ll be after I kill the fucking dragon.”

 

He focused back on the dragon, ignoring her as if she were harmless. He raised the axe again, this time ready to strike the dragon’s throat.

 

“I said, drop it!” Frey roared. She drew her bow back further and released the arrow, letting it fly through the air. The sergeant all but snapped his neck when he looked back at her, hissing curses that would have made another maiden blush. Frey had purposely missed his head. Instead she grazed his ear, taking half of the tip off. “I will not tell you again!”

 

The man’s cursing stopped suddenly, and his eyes were trained on something over her shoulder. Frey was tempted to look, but she didn’t want to take her eyes off of the man in front of her. Then, somebody slammed into her from the side.

 

Frey’s smaller body went flying from the sheer strength and mass of the other, making her drop her bow in complete surprise. The heavy body landed on top of her as she felt herself get swallowed whole by the snow. 

 

Head spinning, Frey struggled underneath the body of another guardsman who was pinning her down. She noticed that there were three more of House Bolton’s men surrounding her, and Frey felt dread filled her bones. She was stupid to think that they wouldn’t come looking for her. She was even more stupid to believe that the sergeant only brought a squire with him. Of course the others had been waiting out in the woods, scooping for her. That’s why the sergeant had been so brazen with her, even though she was a princess who had pointed an arrow at his head.

 

Two men roughly pulled her up, gripping at her furs in the process, ripping some off. The sergeant and the other man pressed up against her, grabbing at her chest with vile looks on their faces.

 

“A princess with a bow, are you?” One asked, licking the side of her face.

 

“You should have stayed in your tower, princess,” said another, thrusting his hardened cock into her backside. 

 

They had started to tear at clothing, cutting the fur off of her when a monstrous snarl echoed around them—Runic leaping through the bitter snow, going straight for one of the men’s throats. 

 

Another man turned to kick Runic, but the direwolf was too fast and bit into the man’s ankle, staining his light brown fur with even more red. One guardsmen laid in the snow, clutching his neck, screaming in pain. Runic toyed with the one who was now limping, snarling and biting wherever he could.

 

With Runic’s attention elsewhere, the other two men focused on Frey, still holding onto her with a death grip. A wave of fear festered inside of her chest, deeply rooting into her heart. Not only did she panic for her own behalf, but for Runic and the dragon. The guardsman whose ear she had pierced once again raised his axe above the dragon’s throat, and Frey knew that if she didn’t react, then it would be dead. 

 

Whether the man still holding her realized that his grip on her had momentarily loosened, Frey reacted instantly. She reached behind her, drew the dagger sheathed to the man’s hip, and brought it down to an angle so fast that the man didn’t even see her movements. She jabbed it into his thigh, praying that she had hit a major artery. The man shrieked, blood gushing madly, and dropped in the snow.

 

Frey maneuvered herself so she was able to see the two men. Now that she could fight, and Runic was keeping the other two distracted, her chances of surviving had increased.

 

But she still feared for the dragon—it was all she could think about—and she knew that she needed to survive to ensure that the beast would live. The man with the axe was insane, but he had to be a skilled fighter if he was a sergeant. So Frey reached out in front of her and grabbed her bow, and an arrow. Her hands weren’t shaking, she was ready to take aim at her target. And she only had one shot. She didn’t think about how this would be her first real shot; the first real shot in battle, in the heat of the moment; in the darkness where she was blinded by the falling snow. The first real shot in order to take a human life. 

 

She didn’t even spare a deep breath to calm herself. She remembered all of her training, of all those countless days in the yard with her cousins. She remembered those hours of just feeling free when she would release the arrow into the air. She remembered what it felt like to get lost in the weapon as she drew it back.

 

Then she let it go. 

 

Time appeared to have slowed down, and all Frey could do was watch with morbid fascination as the arrow whizzed through the air. She prayed that the snow, or a gust of wind wouldn’t interfere with where it would land. She  _ wanted  _ it to hit the sergeant.

 

And then the satisfying sound of the arrow embedding itself into the target echoed in her ears like thunder. And the scream from the sergeant actually made her upper lip twitch. From a thin stream of moonlight through the trees, Frey could see the pain contorted on the man’s face, and watched as he suddenly forgot about the dragon and the axe, dropping it into the snow.

 

He staggered and swayed, this way and that. He clawed at the arrow that was sticking out of his throat until he gurgled, and dropped dead.

 

Nausea was the first thing to hit Frey then, and the dragon looked over at her with a gleam of respect in its glowing red eyes. Those eyes made her feel slightly better, seeing as though the dragon seemed to know that she had saved its life. She felt the itching in the back of her mind intensifying. 

 

But her mind kept replaying what she had done, however. She had just killed a man.  _ What had she done?  _ And it hadn’t been just any man—but one of Lord Bolton’s sergeants. She may have possibly just started another war between them and House Stark. It was an act from which Lord Bolton would never let go—an act that he would demand justice for and would declare war if he felt slighted. In the name of the Old Gods, what the fuck had she done?

 

But her heart held no regrets. She knew that she would have killed him a second time around. She didn’t even want to think about how  _ right  _ it felt. 

 

White hot pain searing from thick, calloused knuckles as they had connected to her face brought her back into the moment. Frey’s world was nothing but blackness and bursting stars dancing in front of her eyes. The world around her spinned as she stumbled, punched in the jaw, and fell into the snow like a helpless calf trying to stand for the first time. She didn’t even have time to clear the fog in her head when she screamed out in pain, heavy boots slamming into her ribs repeatedly. 

 

Frey gasped for air when a soldier grabbed her by the throat, forcing her back on her feet. She was clawing at the man’s thick furs, desperately wanting to breathe. She couldn’t tell where the other man was, but she heard Runic somewhere behind her, still keeping the other two occupied. But she could hear his labored breathing, could hear the men gloating that they had made him bleed. Despite the lack of oxygen to her brain, Frey felt fresh anger coursed through her veins. She should have killed them all where they stood. 

 

She began to gasp and thrash about violently, trying to free herself, but to no avail. She wondered if those cruel dark eyes would be the last thing she would see. 

 

And then he dropped her. The air burnt Frey’s lungs as they constricted in her throat. She tried to regulate her breathing when the other man was suddenly before her, sneering down at her. 

 

“You little bitch,” he hissed. “By morning, you and your dog will be headless, and Lord Bolton will send them to your uncle as a gift.”

 

Before Frey could even form a coherent thought, he backhanded her as if she were a common whore. The opposite side of her face erupted with pain then, too, and she was falling back again.

 

But the soldier who had been strangling her reached out and steadied her with an iron grip. She felt the cool blade of a dagger nick at her throat as the one standing in front of her began to undo his belt.

 

“We’re going to enjoy you before we kill you, princess,” he said with a sadistic smirk. “I wonder if your as pure as a princess should be.”

 

Runic, who was still out of sight, whined lowly, and no sooner did Frey unexpectedly cry out. Her shoulder felt as if though it had been stabbed, but she knew that it had really been Runic. But her direwolf still fought on, ever so fearless and ready to fight to the death for her.

 

The dagger was still pressed to her throat, and Frey could feel a single drop of blood stream down her pale neck. The anger coursing through her veins distracted her from the pain and fear. She wanted revenge, and she wanted it now. She no longer cared about the shakey peace between House Stark and Bolton; she wouldn’t die out here without a fight. 

 

So she waited until the man was grabbing at her furs again, close enough that Frey could hear his ragged breathing so loud in her ears. She waited until he was even closer—than she lifted one leg, still numb from trekking through the snow, and used all her might to kick him between the thighs.

 

The man wailed in agony, and Frey swore that his screams were louder than the man she had killed. He dropped to his knees, clutching his crotch with a purple face and Frey knew that it had been a perfect blow. Runic took advantage of the opportunity and lunged at the man who was still crying, going right for the throat.

 

Frey pivoted, turning gracefully in the falling snow, and faced the other soldier. She saw in the distance two other men dead, Runic having torn their throats out, too. The last man standing drew his sword, and Frey reached behind her, drawing hers. Her sword, of course, was smaller than the man’s, and he laughed.

 

“A princess with a bow  _ and _ a sword,” he said mockingly. “My, aren’t you full of surprises—you’re making me want you more.”

 

He charged and swung, and Frey was disappointed—she expected more out of Lord Bolton’s men. He reminded her of when she, Robb, and Jon were young, training in the yard. She moved to the side, using her smaller stature and speed to her advantage. She recalled Uncle Ned telling her about her Uncle Brandon, how he had been big and strong and wielded a heavy sword, and how he used his size and strength to his advantage. Uncle Ned had encouraged Frey to do the same. Frey did encompass some of her feminine grace into her fighting, like her light weight and flexibility, easily sidestepping him. She swung her sword then as he lost his balance, aiming for his wrist and her strike was good. He cried out, blood gushing, and dropped his sword. The Stark’s blacksmiths have always made the finest and sharpest swords in the North.

 

Frey could have laughed at the man’s look of shock. She always enjoyed the look on men’s faces when she bested them. He charged at her again, this time with no weapon, and Frey brought her sword up, slashing deeply at his side. Her movement sent him tumbling forward, landing face first in the snow with a deafening fall, leaving him unmoving. Runic moved swiftly and silently, pouncing with a vengeance on the man and sank his fangs into the back of his neck.

 

Frey felt like she could finally breathe when Runic moved off the man, satisfied with the man’s death. When she relaxed, she was confused when she heard movement—human movement. She glanced over her shoulder and watched with wide eyes as one of the men, who she thought Runic had killed, struggled to get back on his feet. She saw something gleaming in the moonlight, but her brain was too slow to process what was about to happen. The man went for Runic, his gleaming sword aimed right for the direwolf’s throat.

 

Frey’s heart slammed in her chest, and she screamed out to him. “Runic, move!”

 

But Runic, who was licking at his wounds, had his back turned to the approaching enemy.

 

Frey cursed when she reached for her bow and arrow again, only to remember she had lost them in the snow when she had been tackled. She thought quickly, and remembered what Uncle Benjen had taught her only a few years back. The free folk, when able to get ahold of steel and swords, practiced throwing them like spears. It was a daunting task, taking years to master, but Uncle Benjen had done it, and he had taught Frey during one of his visits since she had been the only one to have patience. 

 

So she planted her feet like she had been taught to, made sure her aim was true, leaned back, and hurled her sword with all her might with a vicious scream.

 

The sword sung unlike any song as it flew through the wind, and Frey didn’t pray for it to hit her target—she  _ demanded _ it.

 

And when her sword pierced the man through the throat, making him fall dead at Runic’s paws, she didn’t stop the cruel smile that took form on her face. 

 

But the adrenaline was bleeding from her body quickly, and Frey took in the silence around her. She took a shuddering breath as she finally saw what she and Runic had done; five men, all dead, painting the snow red. And Frey felt absolutely liberated, though she would be lying to herself if she said the feeling didn’t scare her. 

 

Something moved from the corner of her eye, and Frey saw the young squire boy scrambling to his horse. 

 

“Stop!” Frey commanded, but he didn’t listen.

 

If he made it back to Lord Bolton, if he told his lord about Frey and the dragon, then the North would be plunged into a civil war. Frey couldn’t allow that to happen, but she didn’t know how to stop him.

 

When the boy broke out into a run on his horse, Frey sought out anything to use as a weapon. She had such a perfect shot as he galloped out of the clearing, but nothing to take aim with. She cursed her luck. Now, when the boy’s death was probably more important than any of the men’s, she had nothing to kill him with.

 

Deep down she knew the boy had done nothing to her, and she had vowed long ago that she would never kill an innocent. But right or wrong, innocent or guilty—it didn’t matter, not now. Her family’s lives were on the line.

 

She wanted to scream as she watched him ride off, feeling sick, knowing that she had failed her family. She didn’t want them to suffer for her stupidity.

 

Frey knew that she had to turn back, to sprint all the way back to Winterfell to warn them all about the war that would be coming their way. She was now responsible for what would happen to her mother’s people, and she would not abandon them. Her sense of family loyalty and guilt were too much.

 

Ready to trek back home, Frey was just about to click her tongue at Runic to follow her when she stopped suddenly. The sight before her reminded her why she had killed the five men in the first place.

 

The dragon was flapping its good wing, watching her patiently. Frey moved towards it without any fear.

 

The dragon lifted its neck, stretching it as high as it could go. It stared down at her with an unreadable expression, but Frey swore she saw fury ignited in its eyes. That, and, gratitude. 

 

Frey moved closer, but Runic didn’t like that. He crouched and growled at the dragon, like he was even a match for the monster in front of them. Frey held out her hand to cease Runic’s snarls, and he obeyed once he was sure that she wasn’t in any danger. Frey stood in silence with her breath caught in her throat, taking in the sight before her again. She still couldn’t believe that the dragon in front of her was real. 

 

And yet she didn’t hesitate as she lifted her hand, ignoring the look that the beast was giving her, and reached out to touch its scales. The skin was so thick, so rough, that it felt unlike anything Frey had ever touched before. The texture was an odd mixture of granite stone and leather combined as one. After all she had done that night, Frey’s hand did not tremble. It was as easy to touch the dragon as it was Runic.

 

Frey swore that the dragon leaned into her touch, warming her hand instantly. She traced gentle, careless designs over the scales and stared at it in wonderment.

 

“What did you do to your wing?” Frey asked softly, wanting to see how deep the connection ran. “Where did you come from? Where have you been?”

 

The sound of growling reached her ears again, and for a moment, Frey thought it was Runic again. But it had been the dragon, producing the noise deep in its throat. Frey withdrew her hand then, unsure if she had done something to displease it in any way. She knew the creature was intelligent, she could see it in its eyes, but she couldn’t forget that it was an animal—a wild one at that.

 

Frey stepped back, putting space between them. The dragon cocked its head, inspecting her once more. She didn’t know how long they stood there, inspecting one another, but it felt like a lifetime as they stared deeply into each other’s eyes. 

 

A chill like no other ran down Frey’s spine, making her shiver violently, and it hadn’t been from the cold. The dragon extended its neck, nosing closer to her. Frey was rooted in place, too afraid to make any sudden movements. It almost appeared that the dragon was sniffing around her scent when it all of a sudden let out a monstrous sound from deep within its throat.

 

Frey felt nothing but unadulterated fear throughout her body and gave her own cry as searing steam encompassed her to the point of suffocation. It quickly evaporated, and she could breathe again, but it was enough, Frey knew, to sear some of her furs and most likely her skin, too.

 

Feeling the coldness brushing against her arm, Frey knew that it had burnt off pieces of clothing there and dreaded to see the harm done to her skin. With shaking fingers, Frey reached out to touch the area, afraid of what she was going to find. 

 

But all she felt was unblemished,  _ unburnt  _ skin.

 

She looked back into the dragon’s glowing red eyes, filled with acceptance and something else she couldn’t place. She was at a loss of understanding what had just happened. How was she unmarked? Shouldn’t she have been in pain? The tales of  _ fire cannot kill a dragon  _ were nothing but fables; mere fairy tales for children, right?

 

“What’s your name?” Frey whispered, afraid. But she felt compelled to ask.

 

Then, like a hushed voice being carried by the wind to the back of her mind, came an ancient voice—the same ancient voice that had assisted her in naming Runic. 

 

**_“Valor.”_ **

 

Frey almost smiled. The name suited the beast well.

 

Frey waited in silence, unsure if she was supposed to say anything—but then Valor disturbed the silence when his shrieking shattered it. His head reared back, and his wings started to flap. He managed to stand on his feet, looking like he was going to attempt to fly.

 

Frey wondered what he sensed.

 

“Don’t!” She hissed frantically. “You’re still hurt! You need to rest!”

 

It made her stomach twist in knots when he tried to move his beat up wing, only for him to shriek again from the pain. Blood dripped from the wound, coating the snow red. His massive size certainly wasn’t meant to be concealed by the forest as his head knocked into every tree whenever he looked at a different direction. He started to walk, or more like away, and the earth tumbled under his feet. He tried to take off into the night, but his wing prevented him from doing so.

 

“You’re going to make it worse!” Frey insisted, hoping that Valor could still understand her. 

 

Valor tried again, but this time the pain knocked him off his feet. He roared once more and fought to get back up, but the ground underneath gave way to his weight and sent him tumbling down into the gushing, freezing waters of the Frozen Shore.

 

“Shit!” Frey cried, utterly useless as she watched him fall into the waters. 

 

She felt inclined to run towards him, to help in any way she could, but she knew that there was nothing she could do. The Frozen Shore reared its bitterness, the ice coldness of it seemingly knocking the fire out of the dragon. Valor shrieked at its suddenness—obviously not used to such low temperature—and attempted to fly away again. The winds picked up again and the waters started to carry him away, sending him under the rushing current again and again. 

 

Then, the air was suddenly rented by the sound of what Frey associated with shards of multiple broken windows exploding in icy fragments from the water. Above her, Valor gave a victorious cry and the flapping of his monstrous wings heated loudly in her ears. Frey could easily tell that he was favoring the side of his good wing, but the injury obviously wasn’t going to stop him as he took off into the night.

 

To where, Frey didn’t know.

 

“Valor!”

 

With a broken heart, Frey watched him disappear south under the blackness of the sky. She breathed heavily, her breath coming out in thick smoke as she blinked and rectified what had just happened. The woman, her (apparent) destiny, and the dragon—what did it all mean? Was any of it even real?

 

All of the sudden exhausted, Frey turned around and stopped short. It had been real—if the five dead Bolton men were anything to go by. Runic limped closer to her, licking where Valor’s heat had seared off the fur.  _ It had all been real. _ She had encountered a dragon, she had spoken with a dragon, mayhaps even bonded with it. She had also killed for the first time, and it had been no easy feat either. 

 

_ You are so special _ , the strange woman had said. 

 

Frey felt it deep in her bones; her life would never be the same again.

 

Frey looked down and noticed the trail of horse’s hooves in the snow, going in the opposite direction, most likely back to Lord Bolton to alert him of what had taken place. Her blood boiled at the thought.

 

Frey made up her mind then and there, she had to go back to Winterfell. She sprinted towards the woods with Runic loyally at her side. She was determined to make it—she wouldn’t let anyone harm her family.

 

* * *

  
  


** Information/Credits/Disclaimers: **

 

 —All characters and events belong to George R. R. Martin, and to the publishers Bantam Books (US, Canada), and Voyager Books (UK, Australia). Events from the TV show were created by David Benioff  and D. B. Weiss, based on _A Song of Ice and Fire_ by George R. R. Martin.

 

—The Roman goddess of the moon bore a name that remains familiar to us today: Luna, prefix of the word “lunatic.” Greek philosopher Aristotle and Roman historian Pliny the Elder suggested that the brain was the “moistest” organ in the body and thereby most susceptible to the pernicious influences of the moon, which triggers the tides. Belief in the “lunar lunacy effect,” or “Transylvania effect,” as it is sometimes called, persisted in Europe through the Middle Ages, when humans were widely reputed to transmogrify into werewolves or vampires during a full moon (“Lunacy and the Full Moon: Does a full moon really trigger strange behavior?” Written by: Hal Arkowitz, Scott O. Lilienfeld on February 1, 2009).

 

—The men of the Frozen Shore are a culture of free folk that inhabit the Frozen Shore, west of the Frostfangs. There are at least two factions of them, and before Mance Rayder negotiated a peace, the men of the Frozen Shore, particularly the "walrus men", warred with the cannibal ice-river clans.

 

—The ice-river clans are clans of free folk who live near the great ice rivers beyond the Wall, north of the Frozen Shore and south of the Lands of Always Winter. They are said to feast on human flesh.

 

—The scene with the strange woman (can anyone guess who she is??) and the fighting scenes were greatly influenced by a book I read about a year or two ago. I can’t remember the name, but once I find it, I'll let you guys know! 

 

—This chapter was not overlooked by a beta. 


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